


Still, the Water Runs Deep (An Eighth Year Story)

by A New Life Crisis (anewlifecrisis)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dreams vs. Reality, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Existentialism, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry and Draco learn how to work together, Harry/Ginny break up, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hogwarts Inter-House Rivalries, Hogwarts Inter-House Unity, Lucid Dreaming, M/M, Mirror of Erised, Mystery, Plot-heavy, Rating May Change, Redemption, Regret, Slow Burn, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:20:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 110,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26815741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anewlifecrisis/pseuds/A%20New%20Life%20Crisis
Summary: Summer has bloomed after the War; but even with the hope of a peaceful year at Hogwarts ahead, Harry can already sense himself drifting away. He’s plagued by vivid dreams that begin to leak out into reality, and even worse: he’s got Draco Malfoy to deal with. Oh, and that’s not mentioning that something has broken into the castle and is slowly causing that whole “peaceful year” thing to unravel. Harry’s beginning to feel that his life is an endless loop.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 36
Kudos: 100





	1. The Boy Who Vanished

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During the summer after Voldemort’s defeat, Harry and his friends are working hard to repair Hogwarts in time for a new school year—which they’ll be attending as the coveted “Eighth Year.” One day, after another grueling morning of cleaning up the seventh floor, Harry discovers that a certain enchanted artifact has been returned to the school as a gift, in honor of the Reconstruction effort.
> 
> Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all its related properties belong to J.K. Rowling. I do not claim the characters or their world as my own—I only try to write about them with love.

When Harry woke, the first sense he recognized was the cold touch of stone against his sore cheek. The chill was a shock to his system compared to the rest of his body—which felt as warm as if he were wrapped in a thick quilt—and it sent him into a sitting position. Fire burned from torches lit along the curved chamber walls, and the flames flickered as they fought with the damp coolness coming off the stone.

After dusting his hands off on his trousers, Harry straightened up and slid his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. He feebly pushed his unruly black hair out of his eyes and took in his surroundings. It was unmistakable: from down the steps where Harry sat, on the stone floor at the center of a circular chamber, stood the Mirror of Erised.  
  
He found himself in the hidden maze of trials that lay underneath the third floor’s trapdoor. He was eleven years old and had just discovered that He Who Must Not Be Named was not dead. The Philosopher’s stone glinted beside him on the floor like a ruby flame in the torchlight.

The Mirror stood tall and cold—its glass surface was oily black except for the few flashes of firelight reflected inside. Harry stood with great effort. His scraped hands stung painfully against the damp stone as he pushed against it. He walked to the Mirror, and as he did, he watched the reflection change and cast an image of the curved stone wall and its mounted torches.  
  
The flames caught his chapped face in a warm orange glow as he approached the Mirror from straight on. He stopped only a foot away to check his reflection, hoping to see his parents’ loving gazes set upon him. Harry blinked and his brow furrowed. He quickly looked back toward the stairs, but nothing in the chamber had changed. His attention snapped back to the Mirror.

Reflected in the slick, dark glass was the staircase behind him and the cold stone walls, turned orange by the flames. He even noted that the ruby stone was still there on the floor. He frowned. Everything was there. Everything, that was, except for Harry himself. His hands hung limply at his sides, covered in a cold sweat, as he searched the Mirror, but it was of no use. Harry was gone.

~~~

“Harry?” He woke with a jolt. There was sweat forming on his brow and he found himself sitting up, tangled in the sheets of a small guest bed in Percy’s old room at the Burrow. He looked up and saw Hermione surveying him with cautious wide eyes.

Harry carefully untangled himself from the sheets and replied, “Yes, Hermione?”

Her shoulders relaxed. She was wearing a loose ponytail and one of Ron’s old sweaters. “Breakfast is ready. Come on down once you’re...”

“Ready?” Harry smirked and ran his hand through his messy hair.

Hermione smiled back. “Yes. See you in a minute.” Harry watched her disappear from the doorway and let himself sit a minute longer before pulling himself off the bed.

It was mid-summer after the War. Voldemort was dead as any mortal wizard or muggle would be, the Elder Wand was tucked away in Dumbledore’s tomb, and the wizarding world had finally stopped asking Harry for interviews after Hermione put her foot down at their last grueling ten-hour session with _The Daily Prophet’s_ new editor-in-chief.

Harry had gratefully accepted a temporary residence with the Weasleys once the dust had settled on Hogwarts’ grounds. He felt that then—more than ever—he needed that warm familial presence the Weasleys offered him, although he still regularly kept himself away in the upstairs guestroom, fearing he was intruding on their grief of losing Fred in the battle.

After having dressed himself in a clean pair of jeans and a simple crimson-colored tee, Harry walked down the hall to wash his face in the bathroom sink. “ _Odoramenti_ ,” he recited awkwardly while waving his wand along his neck and torso. It was a household charm Ron had taught to him about a week prior when he’d misplaced his bottle of muggle body spray. He started using it regularly and quietly decided he would continue to use the spell rather than spend an hour scouring the guestroom or Ron’s room—wherever that bloody bottle wandered off to.

He tucked his wand away in the back pocket of his jeans, satisfied, and descended the creaky staircase to the ground floor. The corners of his mouth perked up when he caught the aroma of butter and bacon being fried on his way to the dining table.

Hermione and Ron were already seated thigh-to-thigh at the table. Hermione was stacking buttery hotcakes onto a large plate when Harry sat down across from them. She ladled maple syrup over the cakes and slid the plate in front of Harry. “There you are, Harry,” she said brightly.

“There’s fried egg and bacon on the way, dear, and fresh oranges and pumpkin juice for you on the table,” Mrs. Weasley explained. She flipped the eggs, crackling in a hot skillet, with a simple wave of her wand. Ginny stood beside her, working on the bacon, and sent Harry a beaming smile.

“Thanks,” Harry said, and he poured himself a generous mug of juice before slicing his hotcakes.

“Hello, Harry.” Harry looked up and down the table and saw Luna Lovegood sitting at a diagonal from himself. Her eyes were slightly glazed over as she ate an orange slice affixed to a fork.

Harry smiled. “Hullo, Luna. When did you get here?”

“Oh, just a little while ago. The oranges are delicious.”

“Did Neville say if he was coming?” Hermione asked from over Ron’s hunched form. Harry watched Ron stuffing syrupy cake slices into his mouth one on top the other.

“Oh, no. He said he would wait for us in the Great Hall.”

“Or what’s left of it,” Ron mumbled in-between bites. His eyes lit up at the sight of Ginny placing a large bowl full of glistening bacon and eggs at the table’s center. Hermione stopped him from immediately grabbing the bowl. She spooned out a serving on each of their plates, much to Ron’s displeasure.

Harry popped some of the hotcake into his mouth and chewed slowly. He watched as Ginny washed her hands and walked around the table to join them. She sat down beside him and accepted a newly-filled plate from Hermione. “Thanks,” she said, and started sucking on an orange slice.

Mrs. Weasley charmed the dishes to start cleaning up, along with a washrag that scrubbed the stove and counter clean. She turned toward the breakfasting group and said, “Now, I want all of you to eat your fill. Rebuilding is a nasty business, and I’m afraid the closer you get to finishing, the harder the work will be.”

“Tell me about it,” Ron moaned after gulping down a slice of bacon. “Yesterday I was stacking stones the whole day. I slept sounder last night than I did the day after the bloody battle.”

“It’s true,” Hermione stated with a hint of exhaustion herself.

Mrs. Weasley and Ginny both had gone still at the mention of _the battle_ , and Ron realized a second too late. “Sorry,” he muttered.

Harry took a long drink from his pumpkin juice. It was not that Ron hadn’t missed Fred just as much as the rest of them—though Harry knew no one could take it as hard as Mrs. Weasley had—but after having spent months on the run from Death Eaters and having taken sole responsibility of the hunt for Voldemort, the Golden Trio had been too worn down to move immediately into grieving. Ron hadn’t really started to recognize what it all meant until he’d slept for a straight two days.

“Well, thankfully we’re making good progress. I’m sure the first-years will be delighted to see it,” Hermione said, tactfully changing the subject, as she often did.

Harry felt a burst of pride for his friend. He thought out of all of them that Hermione had the hardest road ahead still, with her parents living in Australia and unaware that they had a brilliant daughter who possibly— _probably? definitely?_ —single-handedly saved the wizarding world (because, he and Ron both knew, if Hermione hadn’t been with them, the War would have been lost).

At first, Ron had been staunchly against going back to complete their seventh year at Hogwarts, and he didn’t understand Harry’s wish to return. “There’s no point in getting your N.E.W.T.s if you’re a war hero,” he had argued. “The Aurors would be mad to not take us on.” Hermione, of course, wouldn’t even consider the possibility of not finishing a single class. Harry just wanted the comfort of going back.

After some pushing (and a lot of fighting—which Harry made sure to steer clear from), all three of them agreed to return to Hogwarts together to finish their seventh year (or “eighth year,” as McGonagall was now calling it), and Hermione had struggled with what to do about her parents. She decided, with great guilt, that she would finish her schooling first and then take on the task of piecing her parents’ memories back together—if she even could. She had thought it would be cruel to uproot her parents’ new life only to disappear for a year at Hogwarts.

“They’ll love it,” Ginny said beside Harry, bringing him back to the present. Harry picked up a slice of bacon and chewed it while she talked. “It’s the second-years I’m worried about. They don’t know the real Hogwarts. What if they don’t come back?”

“Don’t you worry, now,” Mrs. Weasley said with a stern certainty. “The Headmistress has been up day and night making sure every student feels they have their place at Hogwarts this year.”

“I don’t know about _every_ student,” Ron said and pushed his clean plate away. He wrapped an arm around Hermione and looked at Harry with a playful spark to his eyes. “Haven’t seen a single Slytherin sign the list for eighth year, have we?”

Harry set his fork down. “What about Zabini?” His only memory of the Slytherin was Zabini’s admission into the Slug Club.

“He might come back,” agreed Hermione. “Although I think it would be more likely for Daphne Greengrass. She seemed fairly neutral.”

“Neutral,” Ron scoffed. “There’s no neutral during a war.”

“I know that, Ron,” Hermione said, agitated at the mention of the War again. “But what I’m saying is she may choose to come back. The Slytherins who haven’t been incriminated will probably think it looks good for them to return. We could check with McGonagall if you’re that interested.” She looked pointedly at Ron, who frowned in return and pulled his juice mug close to nurse it.

“Some of the Slytherins from our year are returning.” Everyone jumped at the whimsical voice of Luna floating across the table. Harry thought they all probably forgot she was there. He definitely had.

Ginny recovered first with a nod. “And quite a lot of the underclassmen, from what I’ve heard. I’m actually shocked at how many seem to feel they can show their faces again.”

“Well,” Mrs. Weasley said with a start, clearly trying to bring the tension back down, “Not too long before you’re all under one roof again, so let’s do our best. What time are you starting today?”

“Oh!” Hermione exclaimed. She cast a tempus charm and found that it was nearly half-past seven. “We’d better be off now. Thank you for breakfast, Molly.”

They all quickly gathered up their dishes and gave thanks for the meal. Hermione led the way to the fireplace and grabbed a fistful of floo powder. “Everyone ready?”

One by one they stepped into the fireplace and exclaimed “Hogsmeade!”. Hermione went first, then Ron, and then Luna. Ginny grabbed the powder and turned to Harry.

“See you in a bit,” she said with a playful undertone. He followed after her.

Harry landed dizzy, coughing, and covered in soot in the fireplace of the Three Broomsticks. As he stepped out and began to dust himself off, Harry idly wondered how magical beings could decide that travel by soot was the best way to go about it.

Their group grabbed a butterbeer each to go and walked out into the bright, warming morning light. An old bell chimed with the door closing behind Harry, who was the last out. He held his chilled butterbeer close as he trailed along behind his group of friends. This had easily become his favorite post-War routine: each morning before going to work at Hogwarts, they flooed into Hogsmeade, had a butterbeer or two, and strolled around the shops, chatting and eyeing the various sweets for sale at Honeydukes.

The first time they visited Hogsmeade after the war, Harry had been shocked. He’d been in awe that it looked so untouched after all that had happened there. Hogsmeade felt like a village frozen in its golden years.

Around ten minutes to eight o’clock, Hermione and Ginny rounded up the group and began the short march to Hogwarts. Harry watched the castle come into clear view as they passed through the boundary’s north gates and onto the grounds. He looked left to the treetops of the Forbidden Forest, which rested a hazy blue against the morning sky. The sun, rising high above the forest and undisturbed by clouds, was blinding in Harry’s vision. The day was clear and breezy, and his heart felt lighter with each step along the straight path to the castle. Even after all that had happened, Hogwarts was his home.

The doors at the northern entrance to the castle were wide open, and many volunteers—students, staff, and alumni alike—walked in and out of the doorway with supplies in hand. Harry nodded and waved to passersby and followed the others southerly across the ground floor to the Great Hall. There were many obstacles as they walked, from debris, temporary working stations, or leftover construction supplies left on the floor. Some of the volunteers had transfigured miscellaneous items into folding chairs to rest on between spells.

“Hi, Harry,” said Parvati as she passed him around the corner of the Great Hall’s entrance.

The Great Hall itself was a sight to behold: the tables had been mostly cleared to the sides except for one row, which was left for volunteers to rest and eat at during breaks. All along the walls sat orderly piles of various needs for the castle—a stack of new stones (which Ron regarded with a sneer), cut wood of differing lengths and widths, stacked bricks covered with sheets, a construction station for those who had questions on specific methods, a medic station for those who injured themselves when using an improper method, and even a few muggle tools were found lying around in case the charms weren’t holding.

The western windows of the Great Hall, through which the late Severus Snape had escaped not long before, were now replaced with a strong glass that sparkled in the daylight. The bewitched ceiling above reflected a perfect blue sky, speckled by only two stray puffball clouds.

Hermione and Luna found Neville, who waved to the group, sitting at the far end of the table nearer to the windows. Ron was the first to take a seat, saying, “Hey, Nev, you feel up to lifting stone today, mate?”

Harry watched Neville respond with his usual cautious innocence. “I guess we won’t need to do laps around the pitch this year to get our exercise in, will we?” Out of all the eighth-year students, Harry thought that Neville had shown the most growth. After all, he had gone from a pudgy, fearful boy who worried about losing House points to a man who speared the great Nagini with Godric Gryffindor’s sword. The Longbottoms would be proud to see their son, Harry thought.

He also noted that Neville had grown tall, muscled, and handsome, and Harry felt a bit threatened as well as confused at feeling so threatened. _If only I had been “The Boy Who Grew Six Inches Taller”_ , he thought.

“Harry,” Neville called to him as the others settled in at the table benches, and for a brief moment Harry was afraid that Neville had somehow read his mind. “Where has the Headmistress had you stationed this week?”

Harry released a breath of relief. “Room of Requirement. I asked for it, actually, but I’m afraid it might not be salvageable.”

Neville’s eyebrows rose. “Really? It was a cursed fire that burned it, wasn’t it? That’s a shame.”

“Yeah,” Harry replied. “We were in there when it happened. Me, Ron, and Hermione. The whole thing went up in a Fiendfyre.”

“Then why did you request it?” Neville asked but quickly snapped his mouth shut, feeling he’d said something very offensive. It amused Harry.

“It’s simple, really,” Luna chimed in, and again everyone was caught off guard by her sudden input. “Harry feels responsible, so he wants to fix it. It’s a very Harry thing to do.”

“It definitely is,” Hermione agreed with strain evident in her voice. This sent the group into a fit of laughter at Harry’s expense, making him feel lighter than ever. He smiled.

“Well,” Harry started, pushing off from the table to stand. “You lot get your jokes in. I’ll be up on the seventh floor, trying to whip that room into shape.”

Ron looked at him seriously now. “Mate, have you tried—you know,” he looked around as if to make sure he was completely among friends. “Just wishing the room to fix itself?” This sent the group into an even harder fit of giggles, with Ginny slapping the table at the absurdity of Ron’s thought. Ron blushed.

“Believe me, mate, we’ve tried,” Harry answered. “McGonagall had all the staff up there with me wearing a dip into the floor with how much walking back-and-forth we did.” This cheered Ron up greatly, and Harry returned his grin. “It’s going to be a job, that’s for sure. I’ll see you guys at the lunch break.”

“Bye Harry!” Ginny called, and they all waved Harry off as he walked back to the doors of the Great Hall.

Harry crossed into the entrance hall and started upon the vast marble stairs to the first floor. He hiked along the grand staircase and watched volunteers clean and hang the many living portraits that graced the castle’s interior walls. Some of the portraits’ occupants called out to Harry on his way, and he nodded to them as he passed. As Harry reached the sixth floor, breathing heavy, he wondered why a wizarding school couldn’t have charmed a magical elevator into existence. He supposed that at least a staircase still made more sense than traveling by fireplace.

He came onto the seventh floor at last and turned down the left corridor. Down the hall and in front of the doors to the Room of Requirement stood Headmistress Minerva McGonagall. She leaned slightly on a cane, but her stance remained proud. She saw Harry approaching and turned to him, calling, “Potter. Good to see you.”

Harry found that her words had a maternal warmth that eased his worries about the Room. “Always a pleasure, Headmistress. Do you need me for something?”

“I’d like a word with you in private. Now, I see no need to travel all the way back to my office with us both right here, so if you wouldn’t mind, we can step inside and have a chat.” She pulled open the door and Harry followed her inside, thankful that he didn’t have to take on any more stairs for a while.

Inside the Room, McGonagall transfigured some of the debris into a small desk with two comfortable-looking chairs on either side. She also conjured two sets of hot tea with biscuits. “Have a seat, Potter,” she said. “You have all done so much for this school. You need as much rest as you can find.”

“The school has done a lot for me, too, Professor. Hogwarts is my home.” Harry picked up his tea if only to keep his hands occupied.

“And it will always be a home for you—I can promise you that. Albus and I agreed that you should always have a place here, no matter how old you may be.”

Harry’s heart tightened. “Thank you, Headmistress.”

“Now, with that in mind, there is a matter of importance regarding the upcoming school year that I’d like your opinion on.” McGonagall set down her tea and took a more serious expression. “Of course, it is my school to govern as I see fit, but I would be foolish to not make you aware of this... issue.”

Harry sat straighter, curious to how this could possibly involve him. McGonagall continued: “Professor Dumbledore always believed that help should be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it. And it would seem that I have been asked for it, though far too late, in my mind.”

Harry frowned in confusion, but he waited for the Headmistress to continue. “You see, Potter, I have been asked by Draco Malfoy to permit him to attend the school, with the rest of the eighth-year students this September.”

“Malfoy?” Harry interrupted, stunned. He took a sip of tea.

“Yes—Malfoy,” McGonagall nodded solemnly. “I’m sure you see now why I wanted to warn you ahead of time. If I permit Mr. Malfoy to attend, he will most likely be in several of your classes.”

McGonagall drank from her tea for a long moment. “I am of the belief that Albus would have welcomed him back to the school, but Albus is no longer the Headmaster of Hogwarts. I am. And I will be the one who has to answer to students and parents who want to know why a former Death Eater is on our grounds. But I am willing to do that, Potter, if you tell me you would be okay with taking classes with Draco Malfoy.”

Harry was so taken aback by the thought that he only blurted out, “But what about the other Slytherins?”

McGonagall leaned forward and laced her fingers together on the table. “We have no evidence of the other students’ dealings with Voldemort. There were some who decided to join his side, yes—and those have already been dealt with by the courts. There were other Slytherin students who stood by the school and returned to help us fight. I cannot—and I will not—keep any student from attending just because of a House assignment or blood status. That’s what we fought against. But I cannot defend Draco Malfoy as easily as the other Slytherins.”

Harry nodded. “Professor, I’m not sure I fully understand. It’s not my place to say if he can attend or not.”

“No, it isn’t,” McGonagall agreed, “But after everything you’ve been through, Harry—”

Harry lifted his head at the sound of his given name. He found McGonagall eyeing him with sympathy. She continued, “I want you to be comfortable here. So, for just a moment, we can drop the titles and sit here as equals who fought alongside each other in a war. Please tell me, Mr. Potter, could you coexist with a former Death Eater? Could you attend a class with Draco Malfoy again?”

“Yes,” Harry said, and he didn’t even think about it as the word left his mouth. He realized then that he probably _should_ have thought over it a minute, and he looked to McGonagall, but she wasn’t speaking yet—only watching him, and he realized that was his cue to take another minute to think.

He thought about Draco Malfoy—firstly, the small and indignant eleven-year-old whose hand was refused; then the second-year Malfoy who wished with boyish pride to assist an unknown assassin in purging “mudbloods”; the third-year Malfoy whom Hermione punched in the face (Harry smiled at that thought); the fourth-year Malfoy, gleeful about the Dark Mark’s presence over the campgrounds at the World Cup; the fifth-year Malfoy who stalked Dumbledore’s Army to turn them over to Umbridge; and then— _Wow,_ Harry thought, _When you put it all in order like that, it really stacks up_.

McGonagall still hadn’t budged, and Harry was about to retract his statement and say ‘Actually, Draco Malfoy is a terrible git and probably a psychopath’, but what ended up coming out of his mouth was, “Yes, I can handle it, Professor.” _Damned hero complex_ , Harry thought.

He thought of Malfoy at the trials, pale and sunken. He thought of standing on the Astronomy Tower, and of Dumbledore wishing to save a young man who had made all the wrong choices at every turn, and yet still believing that he could change. _Dumbledore was a genius, and an idiot_ , Harry thought. But it was that idiocy that stopped him and made him an idiot, too, apparently.

McGonagall gave him a swift nod and stood up. She vanished the tea and biscuits. “Very well,” she said. “I will send word to Mr. Malfoy that he’s been accepted to Hogwarts for his final year.”

“And Potter—” Harry, who had been sadly looking at the floor, surveying the rubble and soot, snapped his head up to see McGonagall assessing him from the doorway. She gave him a tight smile. “He would be very proud of you. He always was.”

Harry briefly thought of Dumbledore’s portrait, hanging lonely on the Headmaster’s office wall. “Thank you, Professor,” Harry said as she left. He sat there, still staring at the empty doorframe, as the chair beneath him started to morph back into its original state of debris, and Harry stumbled to the ground.

As the dust settled around him, Harry sighed and put his hands on his knees. “Time to get to work.”

~~~

Later, in the early afternoon, Harry collapsed onto a bench beside Luna in the Great Hall for lunch. Neville was there, too, and he looked with sympathy at Harry’s state. “Rough morning?”

“Think I may go back to wishing the Room into fixing itself,” Harry said, his jaw pushing harshly against the wood of the dining table. At the beginning, the focus had been on finding anything of value and storing it safely away from the rubble. That had been the easy part, in retrospect. There wasn’t much salvageable, but the Room had been used by so many that the treasures still seemed endless. About a week in, Harry had found the Half-Blood Prince’s book intact. It felt like fate. The book now rested safely in his bag at the Burrow, and Hermione was none the wiser.

 _Speak of the devil_ , he thought. Harry turned his head to see Hermione, Ron, and Ginny walking to the table. Ron was moving slowly already, most likely from another morning of laying stone. The sight of Ron’s beaten expression lifted Harry into a sitting position. “All right, Ron?”

“Bloody stones,” was all that Ron managed to grumble out before dropping himself onto a seat opposite from Harry.

Their lunch appeared, provided by the kitchen’s elves: smoked turkey, fresh buns, sliced cheeses, roasted vegetables, and fresh-sliced, juicy fruits. Harry immediately spooned some watermelon and pineapple onto his plate, grateful to combat the dryness that settled into his mouth whenever he worked in the rubble of the Room of Requirement.

“So, Harry, how’s your progress this morning?” Hermione asked while fixing herself a turkey and swiss sandwich.

Harry nodded. “All right. Although I had a late start. McGonagall wanted to talk with me.”

“Oh? What did she say?” Hermione asked, and Harry immediately regretted being so open about the subject.

“Surely she’s got you doing enough as it is, mate,” Ron said before filling a goblet with pumpkin juice.

“It’s not that,” Harry said, and he thought of how he should broach the topic. “She just wanted to give me some information.”

Hermione looked at him with interest. Ron, about to take a sip of his juice, asked, “Well, what is it?”

Harry put his fork down and let his breath out. _Pull the band-aid off._ “Draco Malfoy is returning to Hogwarts this year.”

Ron spat out his drink. “ _He’s whuh—_!?” Hermione gasped. Neville’s eyes went wide and he looked down at his plate. Ginny stabbed her sliced turkey with great force. Luna didn’t blink ( _Wait, that’s normal_ , he realized).

“How dare he?” Ginny demanded while attempting to kill the food on her plate.

Ron swallowed whatever was left in his mouth and threw his fist onto the table, nearly shouting, “And who says he can come back?”

“McGonagall,” Harry said. “And Dumbledore, I guess...”

“Harry, Dumbledore’s not—” Hermione began to say, but Harry cut her off.

“And me,” he said, a bit pathetically, and looked down at his plate. He could feel everyone’s eyes like hot lasers on his head. He even thought Luna was staring at him.

“What do you mean, ‘And me’?” Ron exclaimed.

Harry looked up. “McGonagall told me it was her decision, but that she wouldn’t permit it if she thought it’d make me uncomfortable. And I told her I’d be fine.”

Hermione frowned. “Harry, are you sure? Maybe you need more time to think it over.”

Ginny crossed her arms on the table and said, “Shouldn’t she ask everyone then? I mean, who would be comfortable walking the halls with a Death Eater around? He let them into our school! Even the regular Slytherins are a questionable presence in their own right.”

Harry knew everyone at the table agreed with this view, and even he himself knew she was right, but he said, “I’m really fine with it. I mean, when we were here before, he always made me bloody mad, but now... I don’t feel anything about him.”

“But maybe that’s because you haven’t seen him since the War, Harry,” Hermione reasoned. By now, she was including all of the post-war trials as part of “the War”. The last time Harry had seen the Malfoys was at their hearings, where he had given an honest account of his history with the family: of Malfoy’s assignment—which led to Dumbledore’s fall from the tower and the invasion of Hogwarts, and of his own life being spared by Narcissa Malfoy’s lie, which gave him the extra time he needed to defeat Voldemort. The last thing Harry remembered about Draco Malfoy was his sunken, ghostly-white face at the trials.

“Maybe,” Harry agreed. “But I guess I figure that Dumbledore would have let him come, and if people have a problem with it, they can take it to Malfoy themselves. Let him prove that he wants to be here. Wants to move forward instead of back. He’s on his own now.”

Harry fashioned himself a turkey sandwich and ate, and though the others were frowning in clear disagreement, they too decided to eat and not push the issue any further.

“You know,” Luna said, and this time no one flinched. “The asphodels are lovely this time of year. I think they even bloomed early.”

“There were some planted at Dumbledore’s grave. They are nice,” Ginny said. The conversation lulled again, and Harry had started pushing his food around on his plate. Ever since his extended stay in the woods during the War, he had found it difficult to get much food down.

“Oh, Harry,” Neville started, and when he saw everyone’s attention had flocked to him, he flushed. “Or everyone, really—There’s something I want to show you when we’re finished here. I was told you’d know what it is, Harry.”

As they wrapped up lunch and were preparing for another few hours of work ahead, Ron groaned when he stood back up. Luna then asked Neville what it was he had to show them.

“Right. Follow me, everyone,” Neville said.

They followed him out of the Great Hall and up the marble staircase. Neville led them onto the third floor, to the Charms corridor, and ushered them into Professor Flitwick’s Charms classroom.

A couple of volunteers carried desks out of the room as Harry entered with the others.

“What are they doing with the Charms class?” Ron asked.

“Oh, we’re just clearing it out, mostly,” said Neville. “We need some space to figure out the layout going forward. And today we got a new delivery.” Neville pointed to a tall, sheeted object sitting against the back wall.

“Flitwick was kind of surprised when he got it,” Neville continued. “But apparently it used to belong to the school, and whoever got ahold of it wanted to gift it back, in honor of the Reconstruction project.”

“What is it?” Ginny asked.

“Well, that’s the thing,” Neville started. “Flitwick wants it kept hushed up ‘til he’s got the classroom ready again, but he told me Harry should know how to use it—if he wanted to show us.”

Harry was intrigued now. He watched Neville wheel the object to the center of the classroom. Neville pulled the sheet off and allowed the fabric to fall to the floor. The object stood tall before them, and Harry felt something sink in his chest.

Hermione examined it with interest. She read the engraved inscription from the object’s frame: “I show not your face... but your heart's desire?”

“You can read that?” Ron asked.

“It’s just written backwards,” Hermione explained. “Like a mirror.”

The Mirror of Erised’s frame glinted in the sunlight, filtered into the classroom through the windows. Harry stared at the oily black surface of the mirror glass.

“So, you know what it is, Harry?” asked Ginny.

“Yeah,” Harry answered. “The Mirror of Erised.”

“Right. It shows you things. Things that aren’t really there,” Ron added, wanting to prove he knew just as much as Harry. “Me and Harry ran into it first year. I remember when I looked into it, it showed me as Head Boy. I thought it showed the future, but...”

“But it couldn’t, because it showed me with my parents,” Harry finished. He addressed the group: “You see, it just shows you things you want to see—your ‘heart’s desire.’ But Dumbledore said it’s dangerous; that it’s driven people to madness before.”

Harry looked to Neville and asked, “So what does Flitwick want with it?”

Neville shrugged. “He said he plans on showing it to classes as an example of professional-level charms work.”

“Wait, Harry,” Hermione interrupted. “Is this the mirror that Dumbledore enchanted to give you the Philosopher’s stone in first year?”

At the mention of Dumbledore and the stone, Harry’s mind recalled the night the old Headmaster found him sitting on the floor, wrapped in his invisibility cloak and staring at the false reflection of his parents’ faces. _Men have wasted away before it, not knowing if what they have seen is real, or even possible,_ Dumbledore had told him.

“Yes. I’ve no clue how he did it, though,” Harry said.

“Do you think it could give other objects?” Hermione wondered aloud. Harry imagined the many cogs in her brain starting to run at max speed. _She’ll be visiting the library as soon as it re-opens_ , he thought.

“No, I doubt it,” Harry said, and Hermione frowned. “It was only that one time as far as I know. It’s only supposed to show a reflection.”

“Shall we see if it still works, then?” Ron asked, rubbing his hands together, and he easily stepped in front of the Mirror. It was almost instantaneously that Ron reacted, first with a gasp and then a laugh that felt mixed with both fear and pride. “It works all right.”

“What do you see?” Hermione asked him, and her question felt more out of reverence for scientific study than for wondering what Ron, her boyfriend, might desire.

“Well,” Ron started. He looked around sheepishly. “It’s a bit embarrassing to just go out and say it, but, well... I see me and Hermione, and we’re older. We’ve got two kids—a boy and a girl—and we look satisfied. Well-adjusted.”

Harry inwardly groaned. In his mind, romance was incredibly disturbing as an unwilling third-party observer, especially when it was between his two best friends. He watched Hermione blush and then embrace Ron, nearly knocking him over. Neville coughed.

After Ron’s courageous display, they all decided to take turns with the Mirror, and Harry was absolutely _horrified_ by the thought of Ginny looking into it, so he found himself relieved when Hermione took it upon herself to go next.

“Oh, it’s wonderful!” she exclaimed. “Ron, you’re there, and well—we have one child, a girl. And... I think I made Minister of Magic!”

“Minister of Magic?” Ron echoed in fear. “What do you want that job for?”

“Well, it would be nice to change things, after everything we’ve dealt with.”

“But _Minister of Magic_?” Ron shrilly exclaimed again, and Harry thought that Ron better shut up if he wanted to get another embrace that week.

“Ron, I think you’ve made Head Auror. You have the look for it,” Hermione said to him, and so Ron shut his mouth and allowed a blush to creep up to his ears.

Luna took the next turn. “That’s interesting,” she said, and turned toward Harry. “What does it mean if you only see yourself as you are now?”

Harry smiled. “I think it means you’re happy with your life, Luna.”

“That’s nice,” Luna stated, and if it hadn’t been so normal for her to have such a dulcet tone, Harry would have thought she was hiding something. Luna walked away to let the next person go up.

Ginny took the lead and stepped in front of the Mirror. Harry started to sweat. She gasped. Harry sweat even more. “I’m a professional Quidditch player!” she shouted and started bouncing in place. “I made the Harpies!” She hugged Harry so tightly he would have almost believed she really _did_ make the team if only he could _breathe_.

When she let him go, Harry exhaled a breath of relief, and then he wondered why he was so thankful. If she had seen herself with Harry, older and with three children of varying gender and egregious names, Harry might have passed out right on the spot.

“Well, you or me, Harry?” Neville asked.

“Go on, Nev.”

Neville walked up to the mirror and stood straight. He looked hopeful. Merely a second later his eyebrows rose up, and he looked slightly disappointed. “Interesting. There are a lot of plants.” He cleared the path for Harry.

Everyone looked expectantly at Harry, and now he wished he’d gone first just to shake the nerves off. But really, should it have been so scary to look at his own reflection? He had done it many times before.

As he walked up to the mirror, Harry imagined his desired reflection wouldn’t have changed too much—he would be older, but his parents would still be there behind him, hands set reassuringly on his shoulders, and then Sirius would be there as well. _Hell, maybe even Remus and Tonks._

Harry stopped only a foot away from the Mirror and waited. He blinked and his brow furrowed. He quickly looked back behind himself, but nothing in the classroom had changed.

“Harry, is something wrong?” Hermione asked with concern.

Harry’s attention snapped back to the Mirror. Reflected in the glass was the empty classroom and its open doorway behind him. He frowned.

Everything was there. Everything except for Harry. His hands hung limply at his sides and sweat returned to his brow. He searched the Mirror, but it was of no use. He had no reflection.

“Harry?” Hermione asked softly. Harry looked and saw that everyone was watching him carefully.

Harry shook his arms awake and shrugged. “It’s—er—It’s what I expected to see, I guess. My parents... and Sirius. Standing behind me. That’s all.” He swallowed thickly and hoped his lie wasn’t obvious.

“Oh,” Hermione said in a sad but understanding tone.

“Sorry, mate,” Ron said and patted Harry on the back.

“Yeah, no, it’s fine.” Harry put on a smile and hoped everyone would move on to a new subject. He glanced back at the Mirror, just to make sure.

His reflection was missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, and thank you for reading the first chapter of my very first fanfiction! I hope you enjoy the story that’s about to be unraveled before you.
> 
> With that said, I’d like to take a quick moment to talk about the story. I’m going to try to stay as faithful to the book canon as possible, and sometimes I will probably include things that were only in the movies just because I like them. As for the Mirror of Erised, if the HP wiki is to be believed, “it is not known what happened to the mirror after [The Philosopher’s Stone],” so I’m ignoring that the Mirror briefly had a cameo in the later films and just going with the idea that Dumbledore sent it away from the castle (so that Harry would stop fixating on it).
> 
> Please let me know what you think of the fic, and be sure to enjoy the ride!


	2. Those Who Ask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s the end of July. The Hogwarts Reconstruction effort is officially in its final stretch, and Harry’s 18th birthday has arrived.

“Who do you think sent it?” Harry asked. He was lying on the living room couch at the Burrow and staring up at the wood-paneled ceiling, carefully surveying the knots, nicks, and general decay of the aged boards.

Ever since his latest encounter with the Mirror of Erised, and seeing that he truly had no reflection in its black glass surface, Harry had become consumed by the thought of it, wondering what it could mean. As he stared, unfocused, at the old panel ceiling, the Mirror was all he could see.

“Sent what, mate?” Ron responded a bit distractedly. He and Hermione were sitting nearer to the fireplace, Hermione in one of the overstuffed armchairs and Ron sitting on a shaggy rug on the floor, with a game of wizard’s chess set on a low wood table between them.

“The Mirror of Erised. I wonder who was holding it.”

“I’d like to know, too,” Hermione said. “Maybe we can ask Professor Flitwick about it. Didn’t Neville say it used to belong to the school?”

“I think so,” Harry said, finally looking away from the ceiling. “I know Dumbledore was holding it for a while, at least. He was the one who moved it to the third-floor corridor back in first year.”

“Why do you think he gave it away?” Hermione asked. Her brow furrowed in typical Hermione fashion, as if she were trying to solve a complicated equation.

“For safe-keeping, I’d wager,” said Ron. “Maybe he felt that after what all happened with the stone, the mirror had worn out its welcome at Hogwarts. Besides, Harry was obsessed with it.”

Harry frowned. “I was not obsessed.”

“Oh, Harry, you do tend to get very... attached to things.” Hermione gave him a look of sympathy like she was speaking to someone with a recently diagnosed terminal disease. “I really would like to know who Dumbledore entrusted it to, though,” she added.

The thought of their old Headmaster sent Harry’s mind wading back into uncomfortable territory. He reverted his gaze to the wood panels again, troubled. “There’s a lot I still wish I knew,” he said.

He found himself always going back to the day of Bill and Fleur’s wedding. Harry had become so preoccupied by the questions left unanswered by Dumbledore ever since his death, and the ache only worsened when he read the _Daily Prophet’s_ excerpts from Rita Skeeter’s scathing biography of his former mentor.

At the wedding, Ron’s aunt Muriel had vehemently agreed with the write-up, claiming Dumbledore had held many skeletons in his closet. Where once Harry had trusted Dumbledore wholeheartedly as a man of great honor, doubt began to flood in as he heard more about the Dumbledore family’s troubled past. And though he despised Skeeter and knew she lied through her teeth, the thought that Albus Dumbledore could have ever dabbled in the Dark Arts struck fear into his heart.

_Honestly, my boy, are you sure you knew him at all?_ The question stabbed at him, even then, as Harry stared blankly at the ceiling. He blinked roughly to will the thought away and sat up. “Well, I’ll be heading up for bed, then.”

“Good night, Harry,” Hermione said to him as he stood and walked to the staircase.

As Harry stepped onto the second floor, where his current residence in Percy’s old bedroom lay, he heard a creaking step follow him from behind. He turned to see Ginny, with a playful glint in her eyes, say, “There you are.”

She stepped onto the landing beside him and continued: “It feels like it’s been weeks since we’ve had time just the two of us. What do you say?” Ginny took his hand and led him into the guestroom.

“I’d say I don’t fancy getting an earful from your mother if we’re found out,” Harry replied as the door shut behind them.

Ginny smirked. “You’re talking about a woman who had seven kids,” and as she said the number, she sniffed and had to compose herself, “starting at age twenty. I don’t think she has much room to complain about us sneaking a kiss or two, does she?”

“I feel like I should be worried about that comparison right now. How old are you again?”

Ginny laughed. “Seventeen coming up, so don’t worry, you’re safe for at least three more years.”

“Great.” Harry grinned at the joke. He let Ginny tug him by his shirt collar toward the bed and push him into a sitting position. She climbed over him to straddle his lap.

“You can consider this a lead into your birthday present,” Ginny said to him, softly, and leaned in to kiss him.

~~~

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HARRY!”

It was the next morning, a Friday and the last day of July. Harry had just come down the stairs, still half-asleep, to be greeted by a full room shouting his name. He looked around and saw the open ground floor of the Burrow packed with all sorts—there was his usual crew, of course, but also Seamus and Dean, George and Angelina, even Bill and Fleur, and—to Harry’s surprise and delight—Hagrid, who stood stooped under the low ceiling and waved at him.

“Right this way, dear,” said Mrs. Weasley. She ushered the party to take seats; the kitchen and living room had been cleaned up and cleared to allow space for two long tables. Harry saw that the tables had already been set and decorated with white cloth, possibly left over from the wedding.

With the help of Fleur, Mrs. Weasley set the table with a feast comparable to those served in the Great Hall—there was French toast, golden crisp and white with powdered sugar; buckets of juices, both orange and pumpkin; crispy bacon and sausage; and plenty of fruit and syrup for toppings.

“This looks great, Molly,” beamed Mr. Weasley from the opposite end of the table. “A breakfast befitting for the man who saved us all.” He lifted up his goblet of pumpkin juice to Harry. “Cheers, and a happy birthday, Harry! With many more to come.”

“Cheers,” the others chimed in around him and lifted their drinks.

Harry suppressed his urge to shrink away from the sudden limelight. He awkwardly sipped his pumpkin juice after muttering “Cheers” back, and Ginny gave him an encouraging nudge with her elbow.

He had honestly mostly forgotten about his birthday until Ginny mentioned it the night before. Considering that it had only been three months since the Battle of Hogwarts, and that Harry had been consumed by the Reconstruction effort, his eighteenth year around the sun seemed miniscule in comparison.

Juice spilled across Hagrid’s front after he accidentally knocked his cup against the ceiling, and he sheepishly looked away.

“Not to worry, Hagrid,” George said beside him. “For the longest time I thought the house was shrinking. Turns out I was just growing taller. Puberty, I tell you…” He poured a generous helping of juice into Hagrid’s cup.

Harry sighed dramatically. “Wish I knew what that’s like.”

“Puberty, or growing taller?” Angelina asked with a raised brow. Dean nearly choked on his drink and Seamus had to pat him roughly on the back while trying to control his own laughter.

“Well now I know what to get you next year,” George said to Harry. “Weasley’s Growth Spurt: Send your friends to new heights! Of course, I’ll have to develop and test it first. You keen to sign up?”

“No, thanks, I’ve already felt what it’s like to grow bones. I can’t imagine extending them feels any better.”

“I think you’re perfect just as you are,” Ginny said soothingly. The chatter died down as the company stuffed their mouths with French toast.

After plates were cleared and goblets emptied, minds started to wander back toward the Reconstruction project, and one by one, the company began to depart by floo to Hogsmeade. With only the month of August left to work, everyone was excited to see it finished. Harry thought of the ashen, unbearable mess that still awaited him in the Room of Requirement and decided to have another bit of bacon before he left, for good measure.

Harry arrived at Hogwarts just past nine with Hermione, Ginny, and Ron. He headed straight to the marble staircase, a spring in his step after the hearty breakfast, and began his ascent to the seventh floor.

The corridor had become coated in a fine layer of dust after so much stuff was carried out of the Room over the past month. Harry watched as his footsteps left prints behind him and made a mental note to _Scourgify_ the floor at some point during cleanup. _Filch and the elves have probably been too busy downstairs to check here_ , he thought.

He paced in front of the wall three times, with each step envisioning the dark and charred room inside, and the door appeared quickly. As he opened the door, dust stirred around him, and the cool, clammy air from inside kissed his cheek.

As he shut the door, the air stilled, and a sudden, unknown tension pressed upon him from all sides as if he’d just walked unknowingly back into Aragog’s lair.

“Who’s there?” Harry breathed. Far toward the middle of the room, on the outskirts of the piled rubble, stood a tall figure cloaked in black. The room was far too dark for Harry to discern anything else. He reflexively drew his wand and said, “ _Lumos_.”

The spell started as a small spark from Harry’s wand tip and grew brightly until the white glow had crawled into the darkest corners of the room and overtaken them. Harry edged closer to the figure, squinting and with his wand held high, and found a young man dressed in a clean-pressed traveling cloak with a head of stark white-blond hair.

The blond sighed theatrically and kicked at a spare piece of rubble near his foot. “Keep your robes on, Potter. I’m merely visiting.”

“Malfoy,” grumbled Harry. He kept his wand held steady and aimed the tip at Malfoy’s chest. His _Lumos_ spell continued to emanate from the wand tip, brightening the floor beneath them and revealing a black mass of seared wood that used to make up the Vanishing Cabinet.

Malfoy turned slightly and frowned at the sight of Harry’s wand. “Don’t waste your time. I’m not allowed a wand until classes start.” He lifted his hands, letting the cloak sleeves slide down his arms, and made a show of fixing his shirt cuffs as if to prove he had nothing hidden.

Harry lowered his wand slightly, but didn’t pocket it—more out of stubborn defiance than for actual defense. “Is that why you’re coming back, then? To get a new wand?”

Malfoy huffed and muttered, “It’s none of your concern.” He walked away from Harry and scrutinized the state of the rest of the room. “So, is this your work, Potter? That explains the utter disarray in here. I think it’s safe to say you missed a spot.”

Hot anger flared up inside of Harry. He glared at Malfoy, whose back was turned to him without a care; Draco Malfoy, who could still stand tall with a sneer even after all he had done—and didn’t. It drove Harry into a rage so easily.

Harry wordlessly threw a spell at the ground beside Malfoy’s feet, magical sparks flying off the stone, to get his attention. Several bits of ash and wood were thrown by the spell’s blast. Malfoy whipped around, face pale and eyes wide.

“It wasn’t me who did this, Malfoy. I’m sure you remember,” Harry said.

“Yes,” he responded, tight-lipped and drawing himself to full height. His mouth opened as if to say something more, but snapped shut again with a second thought. He shook the ash off his cloak tail. “See you in September.”

Harry watched him leave, wand still drawn, until the door shut and the dust settled again. His arm snapped down and hung loosely.

~~~

“I’ve made a mistake, clearly,” Harry said to Ron and Hermione after having finished recounting his run-in with Malfoy. Just like that, the two had returned to their roles as bitter rivals. It was almost _too_ easy. Not even the end of a war could stop them from going at each other’s throats.

“I’d have killed him,” Ron said. The three of them were huddled together at the break table in the Great Hall. Ron finished off his sandwich before continuing: “We saved that bastard’s life—more than once!”

“Harry,” Hermione started, “Maybe now is a good time to go back to McGonagall and tell her you realized you weren’t ready to agree to this.”

Harry glared at his own uneaten sandwich, which he held with a death grip in his hands. “No. I won’t. I’d be letting him win if I did that.”

“For Godric’s sake, Harry, we’re all of age now and this isn’t a childhood rivalry anymore.” Hermione stared at him pointedly. Harry, feeling like he’d just been _Legilimens_ -ed, took a big bite out of his sandwich to stop himself from saying something else reckless.

Just in time, Neville meandered in, said his greetings, and settled heavily onto the bench beside Harry. “Great news. We’ve just finished the third floor today. Professor Flitwick said we could go home for the day, but, well...” He looked at Harry. “I was thinking maybe I could help you in the Room of Requirement, if you don’t mind.”

“Yeah, that’d be good, thanks,” Harry replied.

“Anything interesting yet today?” Neville asked while filling his plate.

Ron leaned back. “Harry had a run-in with Malfoy this morning,” he said.

“In the Room,” Harry clarified. “Said he was ‘visiting’.”

Neville nodded. “Yeah, I just saw him walking out with McGonagall on my way here. I guess he really is coming back.” He popped a grape into his mouth. “So, what do you guys think? Will eighth year be more or less interesting than the last seven?”

Hermione sighed, “For all our sakes, I hope it’s much less.”

After lunch, Harry and Neville made their way up the grand staircase. Neville marveled at the care of the castle’s famous portraits, which lined the walls as they ascended further up. He talked to Harry nonstop on the way, explaining that one of the other third floor volunteers was educated in magical painting restoration and had told Neville all about it during their days cleaning up the classrooms.

“First, they have to move the painting’s occupant to a different one temporarily, so they don’t have any adverse side effects to the charms. Sometimes the occupant’s not even in their painting to begin with, and the person working on it has to go figure out what other painting they ran off to.”

Neville paused to catch his breath. “Often they’ll try to use the same charms work the original artist painted with, but when you get to the really ancient stuff, it’s impossible. They clean it up best they can and retouch it with the newer methods. Honestly, I had no idea how much went into Charms. It sounds like a tough field to pursue.”

“I suppose any of them are, really. Part of the reason I’m coming back is I don’t fancy going straight into work yet,” Harry said. “What about you?”

They came to the wall and Harry quickly willed the door into shape without much of a thought. Neville followed him inside.

“Well,” Neville said, “I think Herbology might be nice, but I don’t feel like I can compete with anybody if I don’t have my N.E.W.T.s. But you, Harry... Sorry, I don’t mean to be intrusive.”

“You can say anything to me, Neville,” Harry told him. “I won’t bite.”

Neville smiled at him. “Well, I just thought you’d have gone off to the Aurors by now.”

“I did too. After the battle, though, something changed, I guess. Aurors lost the appeal,” Harry sighed. “Before, I thought I’d get in there and fight for something worthwhile. I wanted to save people. But then the Ministry fell, and me and a bunch of kids barely of age had to fight a war. Where were the Aurors then?” He bent down and began shoveling rubble into a large bag with his hands.

Neville stared. “Is... Is that how you’ve been doing that this whole time?” He looked at the large piles that lay ahead of them. “It’ll take you forever.”

“Yeah, well, this has been the easiest way for me to catch anything salvageable while I’m cleaning without it accidentally getting thrown out.”

As Harry continued to shovel, Neville rolled up his sleeves and surveyed the room, thinking. Neville’s face lit up with an idea and he said to Harry, “Let’s try this.”

He laid his own bag on the floor, mouth open up, and took out his wand. Using the levitation charm, Neville moved the rubble, first by the largest chunks and then down to smaller bits, into his bag. For the largest bits of rubble, he used _Reducto_ to break them into more manageable pieces. He then cast a _Scourgify_ to clean up the leftover ash and dirt.

Harry stood, his knees creaking ( _Merlin, I’m eighteen and practically middle-aged already_ , he thought), and he looked at Neville’s work. He sighed. “Brilliant, Nev. I needed you about four weeks ago.”

Neville sheepishly smiled. “I’m just more accustomed to relying on wandwork, growing up in a wizarding home and all. If I run into anything that looks like it could be saved, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks,” Harry said. “And thanks for listening. You know, Ron’s my best mate, but he doesn’t really understand the sudden change with me and Aurors. He thinks I’m a little bit mad. It’s nice to just talk it out.”

“Nothing wrong with being a little mad, Harry.”

Together, Harry and Neville made good progress with their work, and Harry’s back felt sore relief for changing to a standing position. They managed to work their way farther into the largest pile, which sat at the middle of the room where once large stacks of things had stood—the same ones that Malfoy and Goyle had clung to as the Fiendfyre burned all around them.

After a while, Harry and Neville conjured chairs to rest on while they worked. They came across many burnt, but curious, items within the rubble and set them aside into the salvage pile. Harry found several books that appeared to be old editions of class reading materials, including a _Standard Book of Spells, Grade 6_ belonging to Bertha Jorkins for the 1969-1970 school year. Neville found a Quidditch trophy awarded to Hufflepuff in 1963, a large blue jewel that changed to purple as it turned in your hand, and a collection of empty sherry bottles (which he decided to throw out at Harry’s insistence).

Harry became a little miffed at Neville’s luck in finding the interesting stuff, since he seemed to only be able to find books on his side of the rubble.

“Wow! Harry, look at this one,” Neville said for what seemed like the fifteenth time in the hour, and Harry strained himself to look. Less than a foot away from him, Neville delicately held up the lost, found, lost-again, and now finally-found-again-at-last diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw.

When Harry told this to Neville, he nearly fainted. “You take it,” Neville said. “I don’t trust myself with it.”

Harry took the diadem and ran his finger across its thin metal surface. Despite the Fiendfyre and the diadem’s contact with the Basilisk’s fang, which obliterated the blue sapphire stone that once adorned it, the crown was still intact and silver, and Ravenclaw’s inscription was faintly legible.

“I’ll take it to McGonagall when we’re finished here,” Harry decided and set it aside. Normally, when faced with something so heavily tied to the final battle, Harry would lapse into a dangerous spiral of thoughts, but the diadem was different. He supposed that, in the end, the horcruxes seemed so small in comparison to what had lain ahead of him in the forest. He shook his head and pushed the thought away.

“Honestly with a find like that, I say we can pack it in for the day,” Neville said. “Do you mind if I join you again for next week? I think it’s fascinating.”

“Yeah, that’d be great. Maybe between the two of us we can finish by mid-August.” Harry stood, dusted off his pants, and vanished his chair.

Together, he and Neville carried their bags out of the Room and down to the opposite end of the hall. They left the bagged trash at the head of the staircase, where Filch or the elves would eventually pick it up to be taken out of the castle with the rest.

After descending the stairs, they stopped at the fourth floor, where volunteers had been using the storage room to hold items unaccounted for. Neville dropped off their bag of salvaged items, which would be sorted through by helpers within the coming weeks.

As they finally came to the stairwell to the Headmaster’s office, Neville stopped. “I think I’ll take my leave here, Harry,” he said. “Thanks for keeping me company today.”

“You sure you don’t want to go up? You were the one who found it.”

“No, that’s okay. I’m sore and need to get home. See you Monday.”

They waved and parted ways, and Harry approached the big griffin statue guarding the stairwell’s entrance. “Dumbledore,” he said. The statue moved aside.

“Good afternoon, Professor,” Harry said and then realized he wasn’t really sure of the time. It was easy to lose track in the Room. He walked up to McGonagall’s desk and placed the diadem on it. “Neville and I found this in the Room of Requirement today during cleanup. I thought you might know the proper place for it.”

“Remarkable,” said McGonagall. She picked it up ever so carefully and examined the crown. “Ravenclaw’s lost diadem, hidden in the castle all this time, right under our noses. I wonder what could have happened to the gemstone.”

Harry cringed. “I’m afraid I had something to do with that. Ravenclaw’s diadem was one of the horcruxes.”

McGonagall set the diadem down and looked fully into Harry’s eyes. “A horcrux?”

Harry briefly glanced up at Dumbledore’s sleeping portrait. _How much are you still hiding from us all?_ he wondered.

He explained to the Headmistress, “Voldemort was using them to stay alive. We had to find them all and destroy them before I could kill him, and he had an attachment to the Hogwarts Founders. During the battle, we had everything but the diadem. The Grey Lady helped me find it so I could destroy the horcrux Voldemort had put on it.”

McGonagall nodded. “I’ll see that it’s taken care of, thank you, Mr. Potter. Please send my regards to Mr. Longbottom as well.”

“Sure thing,” Harry said. “Have a nice weekend, Professor.”

“And you as well. Oh, and Potter—” McGonagall said to Harry, who stopped mid-step as he was about to make his way out of the office. “My knowledge of the horcrux will stay between you and me. It’s not my story to tell.”

Harry decided to take a leisurely exit through the northern doors of Hogwarts castle. Outside, the sun was still fairly high—it was early evening, and puffy clouds drifted across the sky. The Quidditch pitch was lit in gold and cast a growing shadow over the bridge to the Hogsmeade gate.

His gaze drew to the right toward Hagrid’s rebuilt hut; the half-giant, who had been bent over and tending to his garden, caught Harry’s eye and waved for him to come down. Harry turned and jogged down the slope to greet him.

“Was hoping to catch you before yeh left today, Harry,” Hagrid said to him. “I had a mighty hard time tryin’ to decide what to give you, but here it is. Hope yeh like it.”

He gave Harry a bulky package wrapped in cloth and tied with twine. Harry carefully pulled off the wrappings and examined the gift—at first, he thought Hagrid had given him a Slytherin scarf, although it lacked the house’s snake emblem and silver trimmings.

Hagrid explained, “I bought this off a bloke in Madrid. Yeh see, what wi’ me coming back to teach an’ all, I took a couple trips to find some new beasts to show off this year. Well, in Spain there’s an incredible little creature called the Ray-me-dray-hue.” He wiped his brow. “I can’t rightly say it. Some folks call it a ‘Weazawig’ in our tongue.”

Harry took a closer look at the scarf. Upon passing glance, it appeared to be a long and thick woolen scarf, but as Harry ran his hand over the cloth, interwoven gold threads sparkled like glitter under his touch.

“Now, the Weazawig is hard to come by,” Hagrid continued. “They’re only born every once a century and they hide deep in th’ mountains, so as yeh can imagine, the folks who manage to catch and breed the little devils are skittish to sell any of ‘em. But what they do sell is the fur. It’s said the fur of a single beast is enough to cure any illness, and lucky for us, the fur grows back every Spring. So what yeh’ve got right there, Harry, is a genuine enchanted scarf woven wi’ the healing powers of the Weazawig. How do you like it?”

“It’s wonderful, Hagrid, really... But I can’t accept this. It must have cost you a fortune,” Harry said. He pressed his fingers against the scarf and found that the woven fur had a texture almost like moss, and the color itself wasn’t simply green but a blended sylvan palette: forest greens, deep minty blues, wooden reds and browns, and silver like river stones.

“Oh, don’t you worry ‘bout that. Part of my job is findin’ rarities and the like. Now yeh put it out of your mind and take the gift, right?”

Harry smiled. “Thanks, Hagrid.” The half-giant patted him on the back, and if it hadn’t been for years of exposure, Harry’s knees would have buckled under his strength.

It was much too hot to wear the scarf yet, so Harry wrapped it back into the cloth and stuffed it under his arm as he walked to Hogsmeade. He made a quick stop at the Three Broomsticks to order a case of chilled butterbeer and took the floo back to the Burrow.

~~~

After Harry arrived and settled on the living room couch, setting down the butterbeers to be passed around, he showed off Hagrid’s gift and was badgered by Hermione into repeating its history in full. Ron sat down beside him and chugged his drink.

“Did he tell you how it works?” Hermione asked. She handled the scarf like a priceless artifact, hardly daring to trace her fingers along its soft weave.

“No, not really,” Harry responded. “I suppose if I ever catch a cold I’ll find out. Since it’s a scarf I expect I’d just wrap it around me.”

Hermione returned the scarf and quickly stood. “I think I have an encyclopedia on international magical beasts in my things. Just a sec.” She disappeared up the stairs.

Ron sighed wistfully and looked at Harry. Harry opened his own bottle of butterbeer and started to drink.

“Have you started opening presents already?” Ginny asked as she walked in, noticing the scarf laid across Harry’s lap. She dropped onto the couch and held a box out to Harry.

“Just this one from Hagrid. I opened it earlier.” He took the box from Ginny and gave her the scarf to hold, explaining again the story of the Weazawig.

Harry opened the box and shuffled the wrappings aside. He found a shiny set of crimson-colored Quidditch gloves, made of smooth dragonhide, along with a matching pair of goggles and a pack of broom polish with a cleaning cloth.

Ron set down his butterbeer and whistled at the sight of Harry’s new gear. Just holding the gloves was enough to send Harry into a fit of excitement to fly again. He thanked Ginny profusely.

“Even though you can’t return to the team this year, I hope you’ll still do some free-flying,” she said.

“You bet,” Harry grinned. He slipped the gloves on and flexed his fingers. The dragonhide gripped his skin so soundly it felt almost magnetic; with these, no one would be able to disconnect Harry from his broom ever again.

Ron picked up the goggles and held them in front of his face. “Bloody hell,” he exclaimed. “Ginny, this pair’s broken. He won’t be able to see a snitch with these much less a bludger two feet from his face!”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “That’s because you don’t wear glasses. Try them on, Harry.”

Harry removed his glasses and replaced them with the goggles, which sat snuggly around his head with a thick, cushioned strap against the back. The lenses had been bewitched to match the same strength as his glasses. “They’re perfect,” he said.

After taking off the goggles and gloves, Harry leaned and planted a kiss on Ginny’s cheek. “You’re incredible.”

“I know,” she replied.

They were all startled by the sound of thundering footsteps racing down the stairs. Hermione ran in holding a book bigger than Ron’s head and she exclaimed, out of breath, “I found it!”

She then settled into a chair across from them and asked Harry, “You said it was called a Weazawig?”

“In English, yeah. Hagrid said its real name is something like—”

“The Ramidreju,” Hermione finished for him. “It’s found in the mountains and forests of northern Spain. Harry, it sounds like you’re one of very few people in the whole _world_ to have its fur in your possession.”

Harry frowned. “I knew I should have given it back. Next time I’m at Hogwarts...”

“Screw it,” Ron told him. “You saved the world. The Ramidreju owes you this one.”

“Listen, both of you,” Hermione said from over her book. “I think Hagrid really undersold what this scarf can do. According to this, the healing powers of Ramidreju fur have been in use for centuries. It says here in the early 1800s, during a war between Spanish and French troops, local wizards and witches procured the fur for use in body armor on the muggle soldiers, in a joint effort to protect their land. The Spanish soldiers would wear the magically enhanced armor and find their wounds healing almost immediately.

“And that example was just for muggles. The fur’s affects on magical beings are still being studied even today because there are just so many avenues to explore. There have been recordings, for instance, of a wizard wearing robes embedded with the fur, being hit by a jinx or curse, and the spell being blocked by the Ramidreju’s magic. It’s like the creature’s fur is this thick, crisscrossing network of magical properties that absorbs the opposing magic. And what it does in response is... heal.

“There have been a few spells recorded to not be affected by the Ramidreju fur at all. Unsurprisingly—”

Ron interrupted, saying, “Let me guess. The Killing Curse.”

“Yes,” Hermione confirmed. “As well as the other Unforgivables. Those curses are too strong. The fabric would just fall apart immediately.”

Harry held the unassuming scarf in his hands. Under the warm light from the fireplace, the scarf’s gold threads glittered like a starry night sky. He carefully wrapped the scarf loosely around his neck, fitting it against his chin. Although he had assumed the scarf would cause him to overheat, he was surprised to find that it actually felt cool against his skin.

“So,” Harry started, “You’re saying if I wear this and somebody tried to jinx me, it wouldn’t work? Do they have to hit the scarf for it to block it?”

“Possibly,” Hermione said, frowning. “It’s definitely not as nice as having a full cloak, but it’s a miracle you have any of the fur at all.”

“How many uses do you get out of it?” Ron asked.

Ginny touched the fabric against her fingertips and said, “I imagine it’s a lot like invisibility cloaks. Give it long enough and the magic fades, and the more it’s hit with spells, the faster it falls apart. You should be careful with it, Harry.”

Ron nodded. “Maybe you can ask Hagrid how to care for it. Surely the guy he bought it off gave him some tips.”

“Yeah, I think I’ll do that,” Harry said. He unwrapped the scarf from around him and gently folded it into his gift box from Ginny, covering it with the cloth again for good measure.

“Well, now that that’s settled...” Ron said and stood up. He leaned behind the couch and pulled up a large, handled object covered with cloth. Harry’s heart sank upon seeing it, recognizing the size and shape as the exact same as an owl’s cage. After Hedwig’s death, Harry had vowed to not get a new pet for his return to Hogwarts. He didn’t think he could handle caring for another living thing any time soon.

“This one’s from both me and Hermione,” Ron told him and set the covered cage onto the table in front of Harry.

“I hope it isn’t too presumptive.” Hermione’s eyes were wide and her brows stitched in worry and anticipation.

Harry lifted the cloth up, and as he did, small _tweets_ called out from inside the cage. He immediately found relief from the sound, a far cry from an owl’s hooting, and when he removed the cloth from atop the cage, what he found inside surprised him.

Rather than a real bird, the cage was home to three small paper birds which had been enchanted to flutter and sing like their living counterparts. Each bird was delicately crafted and colored—the largest bird was painted with a red face, black tail, and speckled with white and yellow like a goldfinch; the middle with a bright orange chest, similar to a robin; and the third, and smallest, bird was painted in white and grey with a black crest to resemble a coal tit.

Hermione leaned forward, trying to read Harry’s expression as he watched the paper birds twitter about, and she explained, “Originally I wanted to use the bird-conjuring charm, but with a conjure spell you can’t get very much variation, and I was afraid they wouldn’t last very long. What I ended up with was a variation on the paper bird charm, but with a lot of tweaks and added enchantments.

“You see...” Hermione paused. She looked, slightly embarrassed, at Ron and asked him, “Sorry, do you want to tell him?”

“It’s your charms work, go on.”

Hermione continued, “Well, I made it so the birds are kind of like a... mood detector. For example, if you and Ron were to get into a row, the birds might become despondent or agitated. They’ll sense when things are amiss in your inner circle.”

“I’ll have to stay on my best behavior, then,” Harry laughed.

“We thought it might be nice for you to have, you know, as company. I hope you like it. And you should know, Ron was the one who built the cage. Tell him.”

Ron beamed. “It’s not as nice of wandwork as ‘Mione’s, but I did sweat over it.”

Harry ran his hand down the gilded iron bars of the cage. “I love it. Thank you.”

After the final butterbeer bottle had been drained, and the fire was reduced to a smoldering crackle that barely lit the room, Harry stood and felt a heavy weariness settle into his bones. His long day of clearing debris and traversing about the castle had finally caught up to him.

Harry excused himself, being careful not to wake Hermione, who had fallen asleep while reading her book on magical beasts. He headed up to his room, gifts in hand, and softly shut the door behind him.

He set his Quidditch gear and giftbox on the dresser that stood against the far wall and then placed the birdcage on his bedside table. Harry stretched and yawned, replaced his jeans with his Chudley Cannons pajamas, and crawled under the thick comforter on his bed.

With the lights out, the paper birds began to settle down. Harry watched them retreat into their thin cut feathers and lightly sway back and forth on their tiny gold swings. With the birds’ final soft _tweet_ echoing in his head, Harry shut his eyes and fell into a deep sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Hagrid’s gift to Harry, I wanted to write in a fun magical beast that feels like it fits in with canon, so I went looking for myths and folklore, and that’s when I came across the Cantabrian myth of Ramidreju (which I believe very roughly translates to a combination of “weasel” and “twig” in English—hence, “Weazawig”). The Ramidreju is said to look like a weasel with a body as long as a snake and with green fur, so I imagined its fur to resemble moss or other vegetation in order to blend in with its environment.


	3. The Enchanted Painting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Room of Requirement held many dark secrets that were long-forgotten by their keepers, as Harry comes to discover while he and Neville finish clearing it out.

Harry woke up. As he drew a breath, his lungs strained to capture clean air. The atmosphere around him was choked and freezing, and when he fully opened his eyes, he could barely see a few feet in front of him.

He decided that he was in a cave, possibly man-made. The ceiling, walls, and floor surrounding him were hard and carved from rock, and the harsh edges scraped at the tender skin on his hands. Harry stood, drew his wand, and attempted to cast _Lumos_. His wordless attempt failed with not even a spark, so for his wand tip to light, he had to say the charm aloud.

Harry walked across the rough cave floor, wand held high, until he finally came to an end. Before him, built into the cave wall, was the circular door that led into the Chamber of Secrets. Seven snakes, carved from stone, curved across the door, keeping it locked in place.

Harry, much shorter and softer at the age of twelve, stood in front of the door and commanded it to open in Parseltongue—a language that the present Harry had lost the ability to speak after the horcrux inside of himself was destroyed. In his dream, though, he spoke it perfectly.

Each snake retreated from the edge with a _clank_ , allowing the door to swing open and reveal the maze ahead. The catacombs extended far out of Harry’s reach and were flooded with cold water that reached past his ankles.

Harry fell down to the lower floor, landing in a long hall that was decorated with giant stone snake heads on both sides. He walked fast, knowing the path, and came into the main chamber. He ran across the smooth, wet stone, his steps splashing and echoing around the expansive room.

He looked, expecting to see Ginny’s lifeless body still on the ground, but instead he came to a slippery halt and found himself standing in front of the Mirror of Erised again.

The Mirror stood tall, though it was dwarfed by the size of the giant stone head of Salazar Slytherin that acted as a backdrop behind it. Its oily black surface reflected the shimmering water beneath Harry’s feet.

Harry stepped forward until his small body was framed by the Mirror and waited; but no matter how long he stood there, and it felt like minutes passed in the blink of an eye, his reflection never changed—rather, his lack of reflection.

Harry pressed his fingers against the glass. It was freezing to the touch. Though he could see his own hand, physically in front of him, its reflected mate within the mirror was nowhere to be seen. All the Mirror showed him was the cold green-grey walls behind him.

He let his hand fall from the glass and stepped back. The icy water sloshed around his feet. He heard a low rumble and a _hiss_.

Harry stood still. His muscles had frozen and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t move. All he could do was look into the mirror’s surface, and within it he saw far behind him, through the door into the long antechamber he had just run from. Within the antechamber, cast in dark shadow, slithered the Basilisk.

It must have heard him when he ran across the stone floor, and now it had him trapped. Harry thought it must be blinded, because he could not see its eyes, but then he watched it slide through the doorway and into the chamber. Light fell onto the beast’s face and at last, within the mirror’s reflection, Harry could see the Basilisk’s eyes—yellow and bright like fire.

His head pounded suddenly and painfully. As soon as he felt their eyes meet, though he wasn’t sure how they met since he had no reflection, Harry felt a static shock ripple throughout his whole body. His knees buckled and he fell, paralyzed.

~~~

Harry snapped awake and found himself half on the floor. The bedsheets were tangled around him uselessly and his head was pressed at a painful angle against the wood flooring. _That explains the Basilisk, at least_ , he thought.

On his bedside table, Hermione’s paper birds fluttered around and cried noisily from within their cage. Footsteps thundered toward his room and the door burst open, revealing Ginny.

“Are you all right?” she asked, slightly panicked. “We heard a bang...” She looked down and saw Harry’s pitiful position on the floor. “Oh,” she breathed in relief.

She untangled the sheets and helped him up. Harry rubbed his neck and said, “Thanks. It was just a weird dream, that’s all.”

Ginny sat on the edge of his bed to look at the birds, watching them quiet down and return to a peaceful calm on their swings. “How did you sleep? If you want to catch up, I can tell Neville you won’t be in ‘til late.”

“No, I’m fine,” Harry said. He stretched. “We’ve got a little less than a month now to work, and the two of us actually made great progress Friday. I want to get in as soon as possible.”

“Well, if you say so. Come for breakfast?”

“Yeah, in a minute.” After Ginny left, he composed himself and got dressed for the day.

Harry headed downstairs and sat down for breakfast with the others. He took a helping of sausage and toast with jelly while Hermione not-so-subtly reminded him that if he was having trouble sleeping again, he could ask for help.

 _The last thing I need right now_ , he thought, _is for Hermione to find out that I’m having visions about that bloody mirror._

“I was thinking,” Hermione said, while swirling her coffee with a spoon, “that since the Charms floor is finished, maybe Professor Flitwick would be free for me to ask him who sent back the Mirror of Erised.”

Harry dropped his fork, which clattered loudly and caught everyone’s attention. “Sorry,” he muttered, and shoved a large piece of toast into his mouth.

Harry and Neville made their way back across the Great Hall toward the entrance. The mid-morning sky was bright blue above them, visible through the enchanted ceiling.

“How was your weekend?” Neville asked.

“Not bad,” Harry responded. “We did a little bit of flying to test out the new gear Ginny got me. The weather’s been amazing for it.”

“I can imagine. I’d love to fly sometime soon again. At home there isn’t much to do with just me and my Gran there.”

“Well, I’m sure you’d be welcome to come fly with us at the Burrow any time you wanted. I’ll ask Ron about it later.”

They came to the grand staircase and began ascent. As they came upon the fourth floor, Harry stopped and said, “Er, I’m gonna stop here and use the men’s room. You go on and I’ll meet you up there in a few.”

“All right,” Neville said. Harry watched him move up to the next floor, and then immediately turned around and ran back to the third floor.

As he stepped off into the corridor, Harry saw that his private theory held true—with the classroom cleanup having been finished the past week, the floor was empty as volunteers had moved on to other areas of the castle.

Harry walked briskly to the Charms classroom and looked around to make sure no one else was there. He stepped inside, shut the door behind him, and searched for the Mirror.

He found it resting at the back of the room, covered again with a sheet. Harry walked up to it and carefully pulled the sheet off. He looked into the mirror surface so harshly that his eyes felt like they could pop, and he silently begged it to show him anything at all. It didn’t have to be his parents, or Sirius, or his future life. The Mirror could show him Draco Malfoy, holding Harry’s bloody and decapitated head on a silver platter, and Harry would be happy.

Yet, the reflection showed him nothing but the room behind him. Harry smacked his hand against the glass in frustration. _How could there be nothing?_

He replaced the sheet over the Mirror and left the room.

When Harry entered the Room of Requirement, Neville was none the wiser; if he wondered what took Harry so long, he said nothing of it. They worked side by side, using Neville’s method of levitating debris into bags, and made good progress together.

At the lunch break, Harry and Neville told the others of their interesting finds in the rubble: an ornate chair, charmed with a strong protection spell and decorated with the Hufflepuff emblem; half of a collection of old wizarding history books (easily catching Hermione’s interest); a portrait, badly scorched, with its occupant still inside and cowering in the unblemished corner of the painting; and an elegant gold bangle with the Hogwarts motto _Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus_ etched upon it in delicate cursive script.

“I can’t believe how many wonderful things people left in there... for decades, even,” Hermione remarked. “It makes you wonder about the story behind it.”

Over the first week of August, Harry and Neville made fast progress with the Room. By Thursday, they’d crossed the halfway point, having cleared over half the room of debris. And with Hermione so far unable to get ahold of Professor Flitwick, Harry found it easier to leave his questions about the Mirror of Erised at the back of his mind.

He and Neville agreed on Friday morning to clean the empty of half of the room; Harry employed a new skill he had picked up from Mrs. Weasley, using a charmed washrag and mop to scrub the walls and floor. They finished just before lunch and stood in admiration of the now sparkling stone floor.

After lunch, they both decided to take the rest of the day off, and so Harry found himself walking onto the grounds in the early afternoon while the sun was still high above. It was then, with the wind playing in his hair and the stench of hot grass greeting him, that Harry looked over toward Hagrid’s hut and remembered to ask about the scarf.

Harry walked down the slope and came to the hut’s entrance. The door was already open, so Harry stepped inside and gingerly tapped on the door frame. “Come sit down,” Hagrid said to him.

As Harry sat, Fang hobbled over to him and rested his giant head on the boy’s lap. Harry quickly retrieved his hands to avoid dousing them in slobber.

“Awh, would yeh look at that... Old Fang missed his buddy,” Hagrid said. “Poor thing’s coming up on his years now. Been stiff in those back legs o’ his.” He sat down across from Harry and set two large, steaming mugs of tea on the table. “Help yourself.”

“I wanted to ask you more about the scarf, Hagrid. I was wondering if the seller gave you any advice on how to keep it clean, or, er... keep it from losing its magic.”

“He didn’t say much,” Hagrid responded. “I think it should stay fairly clean on its own. As for losin’ its magic, well... I suppose he did say it should last about ten years, reckonin’ it’s made of fine quality, and that’s if you keep it clean of spells. Did you do some reading ‘bout the Weazawig?”

“Yeah, Hermione did. She said it can protect you from jinxes.” Harry slowly ran his hand over Fang’s head and behind his ears, which led to Fang loudly banging his tail against the wooden floorboards.  
“And more than that, I’d wager. Wear it well, Harry.”

~~~

During the next week, work in the Room of Requirement moved along a little slower than before. Harry felt beaten down and ready for the Reconstruction to end. He hoped to at least get a good, long week of rest in before heading back to Hogwarts on September 1st.

He and Neville were nearing the back of the room and had come into a very tall, very wide pile of rubble that seemed to never lessen no matter how much they removed. The other, perhaps greater, inconvenience they discovered about the mass was that the sheer amount of debris on top had acted as a shield to everything underneath, meaning a lot more salvage to sort through than normal.

They managed to find entire shelves full of mostly useless things, especially empty glass jars that were presumably used for Potions assignments over the decades. There were also books. Many, many, _many_ books, and Harry thought that if he ever made it through that pile and got to see the Hogwarts library again, he would cry on the spot. And it wouldn’t be a good cry.

At one point, they found a nearly spotless grand piano. After multiple attempts, they realized they wouldn’t be able to move it themselves. Harry was first to think of a solution.

“Kreacher!” he called.

After the battle, it seemed that Kreacher had found a kinship with the Hogwarts house-elves; and since Harry had no intentions of returning to Grimmauld Place anytime soon, he had given Kreacher the choice to stay at the school while Harry finished up his final year. Kreacher of course was hard to win over with the idea of leaving his precious (though completely looted and destroyed) Black family home, but Harry managed to entice him with the suggestion that Kreacher would get to spend time cleaning in the Slytherin dungeons where Regulus had once lived. He also _maybe_ promised that he would save any Regulus-owned artifacts that he found in the Room of Requirement. So far, he had come up with none, but he figured he could charm one of the salvaged Slytherin items to have R.A.B. written on it and pass it off as the real thing.

With a deafening _CRACK_ , Kreacher appeared. He bowed until his nose was bent upon the floor and croaked out, “What will Master Harry be needing this evening?”

“Kreacher, do you think you could have this piano moved to the storage room on the fourth floor?”

“Of course, Master,” said the elf. Kreacher, with his sagging skin and permanent scowl, looked old enough to be stuffed and mounted with the rest of the Black family house-elves. Harry imagined the earful he’d be getting from Hermione if she ever found out he asked this tiny, skin-and-bones creature to move a full grand piano. Luckily, house-elf magic could handle any heavy-lifting.

Kreacher enclosed his bony fingers around one of the piano legs and, with nothing but a _snap_ , disappeared with the piano.

“Good call,” Neville said, still breathing heavy.

By Friday, they’d reached the middle of August, and Harry and Neville had whittled down the once enormous rubble pile into a manageable mess. They spent the whole morning cleaning as they did the week before. Now, only a few feet of rubble stood between them and the back wall.

Harry was the first to come across a unique find a few hours after lunch. After moving a big chunk of scorched wood, a big plume of dust and ash was kicked up into the air, covering both Neville and himself. Coughing, Harry took off his glasses and hit them with a _Scourgify_. As soon as he returned them to his face, Harry noticed a bit of something gold glinting in the room’s light.

With Neville’s help, he moved away the charred bookcases and chairs entrapping the item and pulled from the rubble a large portrait left unblemished in its wide, gilded frame. Harry and Neville stared at it, speechless.

While they’d found multiple portraits during cleanup, never had they found one left in perfect condition.

“Oh—HELLO!” Harry nearly dropped the portrait in shock. From within the painting, the occupant waved frantically at Harry and Neville. The girl had long, black hair and appeared to be about sixteen years old. She was dressed in Ravenclaw robes and sat on a stool at the center of a classroom. She kept her legs crossed and lightly swayed back and forth as if she were trying to a hold a pose for the painter, but when she saw Harry and Neville staring back at her, she stood up in excitement.

“You there!” she shouted at them. “Please don’t leave. It’s been _ages_ since I’ve seen anyone at all!”

“Er, hi,” Harry said. “Who are you?”

The girl began to twirl her long hair around her fingers. “I’m Cynthia Buchanan. Who are you?”

“Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom,” Harry answered. The girl took no notice of Harry’s name. “Cynthia, are you, er...”

“Oh yes, I’m a portrait. I’m not the _real_ Cynthia Buchanan, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Right. Well, it’s just that I’ve never seen a portrait of a student before.”

Neville leaned in and asked, “Do you know who painted you?”

“It should be on the back,” Cynthia answered.

They turned the portrait over and found the artist’s mark on the top left corner, written in beautiful cursive script and gold-colored ink:

_Mary Macdonald_

_Gryffindor, Year 6_

_May 9, 1975_

Harry flipped the portrait back. “Another student painted you?”

“Sure, if that’s what it says,” she replied. “I don’t really know what goes on out there. I only know what I’m painted to know.”

Neville turned to Harry and remarked, “I’ve never seen anything like this one. I mean, I signed up for Art back in fourth year, but no one ever produced something _this_ detailed.”

Neville ran his hand through his hair and frowned. He continued, “Mine was just a butterfly landing on a patch of flowers. Well, it was supposed to land and flap its wings, and then kind of flutter around, but then I ran out of time. Ended up only getting it to sort of flap its wings, but even that didn’t look quite right...”

Harry looked down at Cynthia, who had returned to sitting on her stool and was trying to pose. “How long have you been here?” he asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Cynthia said sadly. “I was at an art show, I think. There were lots of people I got to talk to! And then someone took me and brought me here. I couldn’t see his face. Then he hid me in one of the cupboards in here...” She looked down at the floor. “I hadn’t seen anyone else until you two came along.”

“That’s horrible,” Neville said, genuinely sympathetic for this girl, even though she was technically just an oil painting. The painter’s charms work did wonders to make her seem as lifelike as the portraits hung around the castle.

“Don’t worry,” Harry said to her. “We’ll take you out of here and find a good spot for you, where you can talk to loads of people. You should be able to visit the other portraits, then, too.”

“Oh, that sounds marvelous. How soon can you get me there?”

Harry and Neville, both feeling sorry for her, only exchanged a quick glance before deciding, “Now.”

The two boys gently carried the portrait between them, with Neville leading the way.

“If I’m right,” Neville said, “Professor Flitwick should be down on the first floor. He said after we finished the Charms corridor he’d be moving there to help out with the classrooms and the Hospital wing.”

By the time they made it to the first floor, both of them were out of breath, but the portrait was intact. As they walked, Cynthia craned her neck to look at passersby. She waved and shouted at them, startling quite a few of the volunteers.

They found Professor Flitwick in the History of Magic classroom with a handful of volunteers and—to Harry’s horror—Hermione.

“I’m sorry, Miss Granger,” Harry heard Flitwick say as they got closer. “The donor was anonymous. We simply have no way of knowing who sent the mirror to us.”

Hermione was clearly not appeased by the answer, but she did her best to hide it. “All right, well if you do find out anything, I would be interested to know... Oh! Harry, Neville—what are you doing here?”

Harry lowered his side of the portrait to the ground to allow them to see it. “We just found this in the Room of Requirement. It was painted by a student here in the 1970s.”

“My goodness!” Professor Flitwick exclaimed and puttered forward to examine the painting. “I remember this portrait. Mary Macdonald showed it to me right before the end of year art show, many years ago. She had an incredible knack for Charms.”

“Do you know me?” Cynthia asked him.

Flitwick looked stumped. “Hmm, let’s see... Ah! Cynthia Buchanan. A very rambunctious girl, especially for a Ravenclaw. I believe I had to take quite a few of our house points away because of her quick wit.”

“Thank you.” Cynthia held her head up proudly.

“Do you think you can find a good place for her, Professor?” Harry asked. “She’s been awfully lonely.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure we can find a spot for her somewhere. I’ll have to talk it over with the Headmistress. You can sit her against the wall and I’ll see that she’s taken care of.”

After saying their goodbyes to the Ravenclaw girl, Harry, Neville, and Hermione walked together to the Hogwarts grounds and left for the evening.

“Now I wish I’d asked to work in the Room of Requirement,” Hermione lamented. “I’m so tired of working on the tower.”

Early into the plans for the rebuilding of Hogwarts, it was said that a new tower had to be constructed from scratch for the eighth-year students to live in. The idea was that after they graduated, the “Quad Tower” would be turned into a common area for students from all four Houses to use.

Hermione had been excited about it and signed up immediately to work solely on the tower during Reconstruction. Ron had joined her in the beginning, but left after construction was complete to help with other areas of the castle that still needed to be fixed up.

“All we have left to do is the interiors, really,” Hermione explained, “But I never knew picking out fabrics could be such a fuss! Padma can’t ever decide on a color and it’s driving me mad!”

“Maybe you should just ditch it and help with the fourth-floor storage room,” Harry told her. “That’s where we’re taking all the interesting things, anyway. You could help sort through them.”

Hermione pursed her lips. “I could, but I’d hate to leave before it’s done...”

The following Monday, both Harry and Neville arrived early. It was the third week of August, with only one week left before the official grand re-opening of Hogwarts, and both of them were eager to finish as soon as possible.

They started strong and managed to blow through the last of the biggest patch of rubble on the first day. They became a bit less scrupulous when sorting the salvage from the trash, but Harry found that he didn’t care if he threw out what must have been the two-hundredth copy of _Unfogging the Future_ by Cassandra Vablatsky.

By that Thursday morning, the end was in sight. Harry had managed to finish off the back-left corner of the room, so he walked over to help Neville on the righthand side. Against the back wall and pushed toward the corner was the last remaining pile of rubble.

Both of them worked fast, absolutely ecstatic at the thought of finishing before lunch. They were both laughing, joking about what they’d do when the Room was up and running again.

“I’m going to wish for a beach,” Neville said. “Do you think the Room can make sand? I want one of those little pineapple drinks, too.”

“Sounds good to me. Though if I lay down on a beach, I may never get back up.”

Both of them were flicking their wands loosely to toss the debris behind their backs and into the bags. Neville went for another large chunk of wood when suddenly something shifted. There was a creaking, rattling sound that echoed around the empty room, and the pile fell in on itself, sending up a huge plume of dirt, dust, and ash.

Harry coughed loudly. The dust was so thick and dark with ash that he couldn’t see anything else. “Neville,” he called loudly, “You all right?”

“Fine,” Neville wheezed. They both coughed uncontrollably as the dust began to settle.

The dust cleared and they found that the debris had parted and scattered all around their feet, and in its place, standing against the back wall, was a large old wardrobe. It was badly burnt at the top but had otherwise survived the fire quite well.

“I think we’ll need Kreacher for this one,” Neville said. “But first, would you like to do the honors?”

Whenever Harry and Neville ran into chests, cupboards, or the like while cleaning up the Room, they always checked for boggarts before sending it to storage, just in case. They’d yet to find one, though.

“Yeah, all right,” Harry nodded. He stood back, clear of the doors, so that Neville could open them. Harry held his wand aloft.

“Okay... Now!” Neville threw the wardrobe doors open. Harry braced himself, wondering if he’d still get a dementor, but the wardrobe was dark and empty.

Harry called upon Kreacher and had him move it to the fourth floor with the rest of their finds. With that, Neville and Harry made quick work of the remaining trash, had the floor cleaned, and the Room was finally finished.

~~~

“Hey, pass me some of that, will you?” Ron said loudly over the music.

Harry, standing nearest to the snack table and already filling up a plate for himself, grabbed a second plate and piled on a couple veggie kebabs and sausage rolls for Ron.

“Thanks,” Ron said. He took the plate from Harry and immediately popped one of the pastry-wrapped sausages into his mouth.

Harry took some speared cheese and sausage for himself and wandered over to a corner, trying to get away from the loud vibrations that seemed to shake the very air around him, even though the live band—which had been composed at the last minute by a handful of the volunteers—was playing from all the way across the opposite end of the Great Hall.

Hundreds of white candles were lit. They floated dreamily below the star-speckled night sky far above the party, twinkling and casting an orange glow against the Gothic high beams. The House tables had been moved back into place but were decorated with long, white tablecloths that displayed the Hogwarts crest at each endcap, and no one had paid much attention to which table they sat at.

Ron tossed his empty plate and grabbed Hermione by the hand, leading her toward the front entrance. The doors stood open to allow enough space for a dance floor. Harry watched them dance—Ron twirled Hermione around and dropped her nearly to the floor, but he held her steady with a firm hand. They were both giddy, and a little buzzed, and they looked happier than Harry had seen them in years.

Lee Jordan was attacking his drums with enough vigor to wipe out Voldemort’s whole army (again). The snare hits were especially ear-piercing, and though Katie Bell was trying her hardest to put a new spin on “Do the Hippogriff,” her _Sonorous_ charm wasn’t even detectable over the sheer volume of Lee’s drum set.

Over at what would have been the Hufflepuff table, Ginny and Neville were at a stand-still in what appeared to be an intense arm-wrestling match, while Luna, Parvati, and Hannah Abbott watched and cheered them on. Luna’s wand tip was lit up like a sparkler, which she twirled around in nonsensical patterns.

After the third cheese skewer in a row, Harry had lost his appetite. He set his plate down at the edge of the nearly empty Slytherin table and walked along the shadowed wall toward the open doorway. He slipped through unnoticed by Hermione and Ron, who were still dancing with abandon, and found that the entrance hall was immediately much quieter, and cooler, than the raucous party room behind him.

Harry walked up to the first-floor landing and sat on the steps. He watched the dancers below and breathed a sigh of relief to be away from the noise.

“Why the long face, Potter?”

Harry nearly jumped. He snapped his head to the right and found Draco Malfoy standing above him, legs crossed, and leaning against the landing rail like a prat. Malfoy looked down at him with a haughty smirk.

“Shouldn’t you be in the Great Hall,” he asked, “being swooned upon by all your adoring fans?”

“Shove off, Malfoy,” Harry bit out. If he hadn’t been in such a good mood, he might have fallen for the bait.

The tension was cut short by a flutter of feet and giggles as two drunk partygoers ran past them up the staircase, most likely looking for a good room to snog in. Malfoy’s grimacing gaze followed them, clearly disgusted by the thought of it.

Harry, who thought the conversation had ended, returned to watching the dancers. Malfoy, however, wouldn’t let him get off that easy. “You know,” he said, looking back down at Harry, “Even with you being the Golden Boy _Savior_ and all, it seems to me just bad manners to leave your trash all over the seventh floor while attending a party for supposedly cleaning up the school.”

Harry rubbed his forehead in frustration. “And what makes you think—” His original thought lapsed and he looked Malfoy directly in the eyes. “What did you say about the seventh floor?”

Malfoy sighed and rolled his eyes. He spoke slowly, as if Harry were a child. “I don’t know who taught you how to clean, but I can tell you the answer isn’t to just throw it all out into the hallway.”

Harry frowned. He and Neville had seen to it that the Room and the seventh-floor corridor were both shining clean before they left, only a few days prior. Any bagged trash would have been taken out to be disposed of by Filch or the house-elves.

Though he realized there was a high probability that Malfoy was just fucking with him, Harry roughly stood and marched up the stairs to the seventh floor.

The upper floors were dark, so Harry cast _Lumos_ and lit the torches along the corridor as he went. He felt his foot hit something, and sure enough, when he looked down, he saw the floor was covered in ash and dirt from the Room of Requirement’s rubble.

Harry quickened his pace, and when he came to the door, he saw that it was already appeared and open. One of the trash bags, ripped open, was holding it ajar. Harry looked inside and was relieved to find that not much of the trash made it back inside; there was mainly just some dirt around the open doorway.

As he bent down and started cleaning up, Malfoy came sauntering along the hallway behind him. Harry, while trying to mend the bag, fixed the other boy with a scowl and said, “Malfoy, I swear if I find out you did this, I’ll hex you for a week.”

Malfoy mindlessly kicked a bit of rubble toward him. “I’ve got better things to do than think about your garbage. Maybe one of the kitchen elves was feeling a bit rebellious.”

“Right,” Harry muttered. He _Scourgified_ the interior floor and pulled the bag fully into the hallway. The door shut and disappeared into the wall. “What were you doing up here, then?”

“Are you investigating me, Potter?”

Harry glared at him. “Did you see anything?”

“No,” Malfoy emphasized. The conversation was dropped. Harry scooped up the rest of the dirt into the bag, tied it tightly shut, and hoisted it over his shoulder. After hitting the floor with another _Scourgify_ until it met his satisfaction, Harry started walking back toward the staircase.

“Thanks for the help,” Harry said with evident sarcasm as he doused the torchlights on his way.

“Anytime.”

Harry determinedly carried the bag all the way down to the entrance hall, with Malfoy following a few paces behind.

He landed on the ground floor, looking around for a good place to dispose of the trash, when Hermione and Ron came off the dance floor to meet him.

“Harry, we were looking for you,” she said, out of breath. “What’s that you’ve got?”

“Someone ripped open one of our trash bags and had it strewn all over the seventh floor.”

Ron huffed, “Bet it was Malfoy.”

Harry, about to respond, was cut off by the aforementioned blond stepping off the staircase. The Slytherin glared at Ron, noticing his tattered jeans, and responded, “I see the suggestion of party attire is lost on you, Weasley.”

Ron’s eyes went wide, clearly not expecting to seemingly summon the git with his accusation. “What are you doing here?” he asked with a mix of anger and confusion. Hermione crossed her arms.

“I was invited, like the rest of you,” Malfoy said, chin raised.

“For what?” Ron nearly screeched. “You sure as hell didn’t help with any of the rebuilding.”

“Yes, well, unlike you—I have money. I donated to the school’s fundraiser,” Malfoy said. Harry, listening to him, found it hard to believe that even after the past two years’ events, the bastard could still find the strength to act as if he were above any of them. But then again, it _was_ Malfoy.

Ron, getting angrier by the second, tensed up like he was ready to brawl. “Your whole bloody family fortune should’ve been seized and given to the school outright after all the shit you’ve pulled, you stupid ferret—”

Hermione had to physically hold Ron back from jumping on Malfoy and beating him to a pulp.

Harry, who had been trying— _trying_ —to manage his own temper, dropped his trash bag to the ground and punched Malfoy clear across the jaw. _That completes the set_ , he thought with a smirk. It had always slightly bothered him that Ron and Hermione got hits in on _his_ rival before he had ( _Well_ , he thought, _if you don’t count that Sectumsempra incident..._ ).

Malfoy staggered back, clutching his hurt jaw. A younger Draco Malfoy would have run to the nearest authority figure, threatening to sue the school or tell his father, but the current Draco Malfoy had no one to run to, and he knew it. One step out of line and the Ministry would have been happy to revoke his approval to attend Hogwarts.

So instead, he tried to put on a proud face and walked away, into the Great Hall.

The skin on Harry’s knuckles was already turning red and painful from the punch. As he watched Malfoy walk off with his head ducked, he briefly wondered if he had gone too far.

“ _What_ was that about?” Hermione asked Harry. He sensed some accusation to her tone, as if he and Malfoy were somehow conspiring together even after he’d just decked the bastard.

“I think he’s just trying to mess with me. Nothing out of the ordinary,” Harry said.

“Ungrateful little prat,” Ron breathed. “Good hit, though, Harry.”

They high-fived, though Harry didn’t find much joy in it. _This is supposed to be a new beginning_ , he reminded himself. He picked his trash bag up off the floor and asked, “All right, now that that’s settled, do either of you know where I should take this?”


	4. The Eighth Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a new year filled with the promise of peace, and the eighth-years are tasked with leading the way—by sharing a single common room. What could go wrong?

“Eighth-years this way. We have a few things to quickly review before you go inside for the feast,” Headmistress McGonagall said over the noise of the crowd.

They had just been dropped off by the carriages at the north gate and were waiting outside of the grounds while the underclassmen filed away toward the castle. Harry looked up at the winged boar statues that sat atop both sides of the gate’s pillars. The boar stared back down at him, silhouetted by the bright moon far behind it in the sky.

The summer night air had cooled, and Harry could feel a breeze coming toward him far off the lake. He pictured the incoming first-years, sitting in their little boats and gliding across the black lake by lantern light, and their faces lighting up when they saw the castle looming above them, sparkling with as much wonder as it did seven years ago.

With the rest of the Hogwarts students far ahead now, McGonagall instructed the eighth-years to follow her along the path to the castle. They came to a stop at the northern doors, where McGonagall stepped up and ushered them to form a tight group in front of her.

Harry noticed that every eighth-year Gryffindor was present—even Lavender Brown, whose neck was left badly scarred from Greyback’s bite.

A majority of the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws had returned, too; the only obvious lack was from Slytherin—he found Malfoy, Blaise Zabini, Daphne Greengrass, and Pansy Parkinson. Harry stared. Of all the Slytherins he would have imagined to return, Parkinson was the last on his list (besides Crabbe, for obvious reasons).

Hermione, having caught him staring, nudged his arm and gestured with a shake of her head toward the Headmistress.

“Welcome back,” McGonagall said. The hint of a smile briefly showed through her usual commanding expression. “It’s safe to say that many things will be different this year—for all of us. Firstly, there is the matter of housing.

“For those of you who may not be aware, during our reconstruction of Hogwarts over the summer, we built a new tower in which all of you will be living for the school year. This is to account for the fact that your old House chambers will not have space for you, due to the normal rotation needed for our first-year students.

“Along these same lines, in order to make things fair to the seventh-years, none of you will be able to participate in the House Cup. You will not be able to win or lose points for your House, and any rule breaking will be dealt with directly by me. Of course, seeing that all of you are adults, I do not expect to have to take any measures against you—but you can be certain that, should any of you disturb the boundaries set forth, you will be punished by more severe standards than your underclassmen.”

Harry glanced at Malfoy, who appeared to be hanging on to every word with a serious face. McGonagall continued, “When you enter the Great Hall, please find a seat at your House’s table, preferably nearer to the doors, so that the first-years will have space to sit together. After the feast, please wait by your tables, and then I will collect you to show you to your rooms. Thank you. Now, follow me.”

With the delicate flick of McGonagall’s wand, the doors slid open and the eighth-year students began filing inside behind the Headmistress. Harry ambled near the back of the group in order to slowly drink in the sight—the castle corridors were lit up brightly with every torch and candle burning, turning the interior stone an amber hue. The portraits on the walls, as well as the suits of armor, were all visibly shaking in anticipation of the new year, and the ghosts were gliding along the hall and chatting with students as everyone made their way to the feast.

Harry was the last one through the doors as they closed. He walked southerly down the corridor, face bathed in orange by the torchlights, with his black school robes in sharp contrast against the golden stone walls beside him. The overlapping sounds of rushed footsteps and chatter echoed off the stone back toward him, and so he overheard Hannah Abbot say rather coolly, “Neville, I think your robes are on inside-out.”

The eighth-years began to pass the arching entrance hall door. Through the glass and black iron frame, the first-years were straining their necks to look at them, eyes wide, while Professor Slughorn fitfully tried to keep their attention on his instructions.

As Harry was still lagging behind the group, it gave ample time for Slughorn to turn around, wondering what had his students so distracted, and spot the Boy Who Lived. “Welcome back, Harry, my boy!” Slughorn all but shouted through the clear glass of the door.

The effect was instantaneous: the whole group of first-years, a short mass of black robes, wizarding hats, and small round faces, broke out into a ripple of _gasps_ and cries. Some of the braver children waved vigorously to Harry and called his name out.

Harry quickly ducked and ran the remaining length of the corridor to the Great Hall.

Two tall stone torches stood on both sides of the doors, burning bright. The doors, towering and ornate, opened to allow the eighth-years inside.

The hall broke into applause when they arrived. Many of the eighth-years had led the resistance inside the castle and were highly revered among the underclassmen—especially Neville. Space was made at their Houses’ tables by the sixth and seventh-year students, allowing them all to fill in near the doors. Harry sat down between Ginny and Neville and tried to avoid meeting the eyes of anyone he didn’t know well.

Slowly, the applause subsided, as McGonagall made way to her seat at the head of the staff table. Harry noticed that despite the casualties, or those who were kept home out of remnant fears, the House tables were still well-populated.

The doors opened again for the entrance of the first-year students. Harry hid behind Neville’s tall frame while Slughorn led them across the hall to be sorted.

“Is the hat not going to sing this year?” Ginny asked from beside him. Harry leaned forward and saw that the Sorting Hat was sitting on its stool, silent.

“What could he say that hasn’t been said a million times already?” Ron questioned. “’Hey, why don’t you lot try sorting yourselves for once? See how you like it?’ That would go over well.”

After the Sorting was done and the first-years seated, McGonagall stepped up to the Headmaster’s podium for the speech.

“Good evening,” she began, waiting for the murmurs to die down. “I’d like to preface this feast, and really, this new chapter in Hogwarts’ history that all of us will be writing together, with a story.”

All eyes were upon the Headmistress as she continued: “Many years ago, in a time which most have now long forgotten, there were four friends whose relationship was greatly envied by all. No one could have anticipated how it would fall apart.

“Two of these friends were Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin,” she said. More than a few students looked around nervously and muttered amongst themselves.

McGonagall waited until all was quiet again, and continued: “Together, with Helga Hufflepuff and Rowena Ravenclaw, the four of them built a school where they could pass on their combined knowledge to the next generation of witches and wizards.

“If ever there were an inseparable pair, built out of loyalty and trust, it was in the friendship between Gryffindor and Slytherin,” she said. Across the Great Hall, there was a ripple of disbelief.

Ron bowed his head and muttered, “Bloody unlikely.”

“And so it was that they both believed this to be true,” McGonagall continued, ignoring the reaction. “As the years went by, each founder of Hogwarts developed their own style of teaching, and of choosing _who_ to teach, and each argued for their method to become supreme. From this division, the four Houses were made, and even to this day, all Hogwarts students are sorted by the same system its founders created.

“However, even with this system in place, the founders’ frustrations ran much deeper than any could know; and so Gryffindor and Slytherin—once inseparable—became splintered by their beliefs, and separated. Ever after these events took place, Hogwarts has sought a way to heal the lasting divisions running between its Houses.

“It is today,” McGonagall stated, “That we start upon this path. Now, I ask that the eighth-years please stand—all together.”

They each stood from the tables, with all eyes of the hall locked upon them, and the room remained quiet. Harry eyed Malfoy from across the hall. The boy looked beaten down, with his gaze affixed to the floor.

McGonagall continued: “Each of these students has known the other as first-years; they’ve learned together and grown together. There have been times of accord between them, and even more so, times of division. Some of them have faced adversities no one else in this room could ever imagine, but all of them have returned with the hope of a new, more unified future.

“The eighth-years will not be returning to their Houses, but to the newly built Quad Tower, so named as to join the Houses together as one again. Let this be a guide to us all going forward: that your House’s strengths are not a supremacy above all, but rather an equal piece to a matching set.

“Eighth-years, you may be seated,” she said. “And now—may the feast begin!”

With a wave of her wand, the food appeared—glistening and hot. Harry watched the Gryffindor first-years’ eyes bulge upon seeing a whole roasted turkey materialize in front of them. He smiled to himself, thinking of his first feast, and filled his plate.

“I don’t know about you,” said Ron as he pulled off a full turkey leg, “But I didn’t sign up for this whole ‘unity’ experiment.”

Ginny stopped, fork held in mid-air, to fix him with a raised brow. “What, so you’re saying you _want_ people to hex each other in the hallways again?”

“No, but there’s more than a couple I wouldn’t mind hexing myself.”

“Ron,” Hermione warned, “I know you were listening when the Headmistress said we’re going to be held to higher standards this year.”

Ron smacked his fist, along with the turkey leg he was clutching in it, against the wood table. “Higher standards my arse! If that were the case, that git Malfoy and his repulsive girlfriend wouldn’t be here, would they? I’m not about to try to unify myself with the likes of them.”

Neville nervously coughed and added, “I did think it was a bit odd that the Parkinson girl came back, after—” He glanced at Harry. “Well, you know...”

Hermione frowned. She picked up her glass of pumpkin juice and held it close. “I’m sure that whatever reasons the Headmistress has are—”

“Oh, please,” Ron moaned, cutting her off. He angrily pointed at Hermione. “ _You_ said you agreed with me that Harry was off his rocker for letting her bring Malfoy back.”

The two of them were so enraged with each other that Hermione didn’t even have time to look ashamed of the accusation. Harry, feeling the tense atmosphere, decidedly stayed out of it. He figured neither would be speaking to each for at least the night.

After the feast, the eighth-years waited in their seats while the prefects led all of the underclassmen out of the Great Hall. As the last of the students trickled out, Headmistress McGonagall walked across to the doors and instructed the eighth-years to follow her.

The entrance to the Quad Tower was located on the fourth floor. The tower itself was built out from the southeast wall, overlooking both the greenhouses and the lake to the south, and the castle’s interior walls and grounds to the north.

After stepping off the grand staircase, McGonagall led them upon a right turn, past the library’s restricted section, and across the long corridor to the opposite wall. It was there she stopped, and as Harry packed into the hallway with the other eighth-years, he saw that she was standing between two tall glass windows. Behind the Headmistress, newly hung on the wall, was the portrait of Cynthia Buchanan.

As the eighth-years clustered together in front of the portrait, Cynthia eyed them from her stool. Her left hand kept a white-knuckled grip on her stool seat, to hold her pose, while her other waved about wildly at the group. “Hello—Hi!—Call me Cynthia,” she said to each of them.

The portrait was hung high on the wall so that most had to lift their heads to meet the girl’s eyes, and unlike the Fat Lady, it was not tall enough to act as a door. Harry wondered how they would get into the tower.

“Attention, please,” McGonagall commanded, having to raise her voice over Cynthia’s attempts to hog the spotlight. At once, the crowd became silent, and Cynthia stopped her blabber.

The Headmistress continued: “Each of your Houses had its own unique secret for gaining access to the common room, and you will find this tower to be no different. When you wish to return to your rooms, you will stop here, in front of this portrait, and take out your wand.”

She drew her wand and pressed its tip against the portrait’s canvas, at the bottom-left corner. “You will touch the Hogwarts crest—here—with your wand and say, ‘ _Dissendium_.’”

Harry strained his eyes and saw that there was indeed a Hogwarts crest drawn in gold ink upon the darkly painted canvas; whether it was there when he and Neville found the portrait in the Room of Requirement, he wasn’t sure.

The crest sparkled and glowed brightly after the spell was cast, and suddenly a loud rumble shook the corridor, startling the crowd.

At first, Harry wasn’t sure what was happening—he stood near the back of the group, and though he saw the others reacting to something ahead of them, he couldn’t see what it was. He walked around the back, sliding himself against the wall, until he came onto the other side and could finally see around the crowd.

Though it might not have been obvious upon first glance, he saw that the stones on the floor below the left window were aligned in long horizontal rows, and as the rumbling grew, he understood why. The stones began to rise from the floor like pillars, shaking under the pressure and kicking up dust, until coming to a stop below the window pane. Each row stopped at a shorter height the further away it was from the glass, forming a staircase.

The window, which Harry quickly realized was only charmed to show the sky outside, swung open toward them. Through the opening was a dark stairwell that spiraled up and toward the right, where Harry presumed the tower must be.

“Now, Miss Abbott, please,” said McGonagall, ushering her forward. Hannah, who had been near the front of the crowd, walked ahead.

“You’ll lead the way,” McGonagall continued, “And everyone else will follow suit, in an orderly fashion.”

One by one, the eighth-years followed after Hannah up the spiraling stairs, disappearing from view beyond the curve. Harry was still hanging toward the back, and so when Malfoy approached McGonagall by the portrait, he overheard their conversation:

“Professor,” Malfoy started in a muted tone, “I have an issue with the password method...”

“Yes, Mr. Malfoy, I anticipated you would. My suggestion is to talk with your fellow classmates—perhaps Miss Parkinson would be available to assist you.”

Harry walked up the curve of the spiral and heard no more of the exchange. On the other side, he stumbled out of the dark stairwell and into the Quad’s common room. It was larger than the one in Gryffindor and had twice as much furniture.

The room was circular, with the wall painted a creamy white, and its ceiling extended high above them and was dressed with white beams. The floor was laid with wood panels that gleamed a golden hue against the firelight.

On the left side, a fireplace adorned the wall, with a plush carpet, couches, and chairs set in front of it. On the opposite wall was a large reading window that looked over the lake, though it was too dark to see much but the lights on the dock and greenhouses.

There were four couches in total, and each was decorated to match one of the four Houses. Between them stood a low wood table that would be used for homework or boardgames. The chairs were each intricately patterned with all the colors of the Hogwarts crest, and had the crest’s shape stitched in gold upon their cushions.

Harry sat down by Neville on one of the couches. Hermione and Ron had each taken chairs as far away from the other as possible, confirming Harry’s earlier theory that they would be at war for the rest of the night.

He looked back toward the stairs and saw Malfoy come in with McGonagall. The blond, after quickly assessing the room, walked over to a darkened corner to stand with the other Slytherins, though he made no attempt to speak to any of them.

The Headmistress, clearly satisfied by the elegance of the common room, allowed herself to smile, and asked, “What do you think?”

“It’s bloody amazing!” Dean cried out before anyone else could say something a bit more poetic.

“Thank you for your candor, Mr. Thomas. If anyone else has praises they’d like to pass along, please give them to Miss Granger and Patil directly. Now, you will find your dormitories through those doorways.”

She pointed with her wand directly across the room to the open doors—the left leading to the boys’ rooms, and the right to the girls’. McGonagall continued, “If you need anything else, you know where to find me. The password is _Trust_. Good night.”

While many of his fellow eighth-years began to move about and explore the dorms, Harry felt himself sinking further into the couch. The fire was warm and he couldn’t bear the thought of standing back up. He slowly drifted off to sleep.

~~~

In what felt like an instant, he was awake again. Everything was dark—and eerily quiet. Though he couldn’t know for certain, Harry felt that he was surrounded.

“ _Now, where to put you?_ ” said the voice of the Sorting Hat, echoing around his head.

Suddenly, the hat was snatched off his head, and bright light blinded his vision. He blinked painfully until his vision swam and readjusted, and then he saw that he was sitting in the Great Hall.

Every student in the hall had their eyes locked upon him, and they looked shocked. Harry sought out Ron and Hermione, both little first-years and sitting at the end of the Gryffindor table. Ron looked positively afraid.

“Mr. Potter,” McGonagall said from beside him. Harry looked up—she was towering above him and held the Sorting Hat over his head. “Please join your House’s table.”

The chatter in the hall grew loud. Harry stood and stepped down toward the Gryffindor table, already anticipating what he might say to his friends: ‘ _Hey, so, I’m actually eighteen and we all defeated Voldemort—who wasn’t dead, by the way, although now he really is—and now I’m having these weirdly vivid dreams that are also kind of real? Got any ideas?’_

“Mr. Potter,” McGonagall called again, her voice raised with clear impatience. Harry stopped a foot from the table and turned to look back at the professor.

McGonagall looked down at him from over her spectacles. She frowned and said, “The Slytherin table is _there_.” She pointed to the table with her wand.

Some of the upperclassmen in the hall chuckled at his pitifulness. Harry followed her finger and gazed at the far table, where young Draco Malfoy was scowling back at him.

Harry walked across the hall and kept his head bowed; the room was full of conspiratorial murmurs, and not a single Slytherin clapped for his arrival. As he turned the corner and came to a stop in front of Draco, the boy held out his hand just as he had on the train.

“I guess it was you who was the ‘wrong sort’ after all, eh, Potter?”

Harry stood, staring at the offered hand, thinking of what he must do. The thought, _I need to go back, I have to reset this to before it happened_ , ran through his head on repeat.

Quickly, Harry pushed past the other boy and ran down the length of the hall to the doors. The students around him choked and stared, and he vaguely heard Professor McGonagall yelling for him to return to his seat.

He ran through the doorway into the entrance hall and pushed open the large door to the outside. Whether anyone was chasing him, he didn’t know. He ran, determined, across the courtyard to the long staircase that led down the cliff to the lake.

If he made it to the boathouse on the docks, Harry thought, he could trigger a reset of the whole sorting ceremony. He didn’t know how it would work, but fuck it—it was his dream and he could do what he wanted.

He leapt down the steps and was halfway across the staircase already. The boathouse was in clear view. He came to the midway landing and began to run the length of it, already holding a painful stitch in his side, when he looked ahead and saw that the next set of stairs was blocked.

It was too dark outside to see clearly what was blocking his path. Harry slowed down, his breathing heavily labored, and stopped dead in his tracks when he finally recognized it. The thing stood tall before him and glittered with the lights from the castle behind him—it was the Mirror of Erised.

“Leave me alone!” Harry shouted at it, although the Mirror was only an object and took no heed of his words or meaning.

Harry dared not look into its reflection, so he turned on his heel and ran back up the steps; by the time he made it to the entrance hall doors again, he was doubled over in pain. The stitch in his side had grown and was burning his insides.

The entrance hall was empty; either the staff thought he had run in the opposite direction, or they stopped looking for him and returned to the feast. Whatever it was, he didn’t care. He fell to his knees, still clutching his side and begging the pain to lessen.

His breaths came in horrible waves. He was dizzy and disoriented. The last thing he saw before blacking out was the doors to the Great Hall opening, with a great _creaking_ noise, and darkness behind them.

Harry gasped sharply and woke up. Something hard-edged was stabbing at his side—he had half-rolled off the common room couch and onto to the coffee table beside it, and the table’s corner was poking his ribs. He fully rolled off it and fell to the floor with a grunt.

“You all right, Harry?”

Harry, still breathing heavy, lifted his head and saw that Neville was seated in a chair across from the couch.

“Never better,” Harry exerted. He sat up and rubbed his side.

From across the room came a familiar drawl, asking, “Is that how you sleep normally, Potter?” Malfoy was sitting on the reading window, his legs crossed and a book held in his lap.

Harry ignored him and asked Neville, “What time is it?”

Before Neville could think, Malfoy flicked his wrist, looking down at a wristwatch on his right arm, and said, “Twelve-forty. I suspect that’s well past your bedtime.”

Harry stood and marched over to the window. Malfoy, clearly surprised, shrank back against the corner of the windowsill, possibly recalling the punch Harry had landed on him at the party.

“Listen, Malfoy,” Harry demanded. “Keep the personal jabs to yourself this year and we might just make it out the other end without us both getting tossed. The less I hear from you, the better.”

Malfoy scowled. His eyes darted between Harry and Neville, as if he were debating how much he could get away with. He decided to say, “I’ll keep that in mind.” He opened his book with force and stared blankly at the pages.

As Harry turned away with the intention to now find his room, Neville came up behind him. “I can show you where yours is,” he said. “I already looked them over earlier.”

The dormitory door led to an ascending staircase. As they walked, Neville spoke in a hushed tone, either to not wake anyone up or to keep Malfoy from overhearing.

“Everyone else had already gone up, but I noticed you were still sleeping,” Neville explained to him. “And with Malfoy out there, it didn’t feel right to leave you by yourself. I hope you don’t mind that I didn’t wake you up sooner.”

“No, it’s fine, Neville.”

The boys’ dormitory was kept in a circular tower that extended off of the common room’s tower. It had four levels—one level for each House’s students, which Harry felt was ironic if they were meant to be House-less and embracing unity this year.

“What do you think they’ll do with the rooms when we leave?” Harry asked Neville.

“I was wondering that, too. Maybe they’ll convert it to extra common area space.”

The eighth-year Gryffindors were housed at the top level of the tower. The rooms were laid out in a circular pattern; there were five in total, meaning each of them had a private suite. The rooms revolved around a small access hallway that turned left from the staircase.

Harry came to the door labeled with his name. Directly to its right was Ron’s door, and Harry dismally noticed that a Gryffindor necktie was loosely hung from the doorknob.

“Do you suppose they made up, then?” Neville asked. He had obviously noticed the tie, too.

Harry looked to Neville and, with a desperate voice, said, “It’s going to be a long year, isn’t it?”

Neville patted him on the back, wished him a good night, and disappeared into his own room. Harry only hoped the walls weren’t thin.

Inside, the suite was small but rather nice. A large arched window was carved into the back wall, and underneath it was a bedside table with drawers. On top of the table was a lantern and his birthday gift from Ron and Hermione. Against the left wall was his bed, dressed with red and gold sheets and pillows, and against the right was a large writing desk. His trunk sat on the floor at the foot of his bed.

Harry drew off his robes and replaced them with flannel pajamas and a white cotton shirt. His paper birds were sitting on their swings, fast asleep, and swaying back and forth. As soon as he hit the bed, he fell into a dreamless sleep.

~~~

The first thing Harry heard when he woke was banging, though fortunately it was only someone knocking at his door. Beside his head, the paper birds were loudly chirping.

“Harry!” Hermione called from the other side. “You’re going to miss breakfast. Get up!”

The three of them left for the Great Hall together. Hermione led them and kept a good pace, talking all the way with plans for their schedules. The first week’s load would be kept light for the eighth-years, due to an exam taking place at the end of the week for those who hadn’t technically passed sixth year but couldn’t be placed with the underclassmen.

“Hannah Abbott told me she’s been studying all summer,” Hermione explained as they descended the grand staircase. “They’re going to give her a sort of pre-N.E.W.T. exam to assess her proficiency at the sixth-year curriculum. Then she’ll join us in classes starting next week.”

“What happens if she fails?” Ron asked.

“She can’t. They won’t have anywhere to house her. Besides, she should be fine. Sixth year’s classes weren’t so bad.”

“For a lunatic like you, maybe.”

At breakfast, a fresh treacle tart was left for Harry specifically. It was a gift from Kreacher, who was kept working in the Hogwarts kitchens, as a thank-you for the embroidered Slytherin pillow Harry had given to him and _insisted_ was definitely-maybe slept on at one point by Regulus Black.

The Great Hall was packed, and owls were already arriving to deliver letters from proud family members, congratulating their student on being sorted or advancing a year. The ceiling above promised clear skies for the day ahead of them all.

While Ron and Harry tried to figure out how the Gryffindor team might fair in the House Cup in the coming months, Hermione was bent over parchment and viciously preparing written schedules for each of them to follow.

After the third round of Quidditch team debates, which inevitably always came back to them both insisting Ginny hadn’t picked a good enough seeker, Harry paused and was struck by a pang of worry (unrelated to the House Cup).

It was strange—the feeling had been lightly itching at the back of his mind for some time: that everything had fallen back into place too easily, as if it were still the times before the search for horcruxes, before battles and ministry interference and masked intruders.

Ron’s incessant talk of Quidditch turned to noise; Harry stared at Hermione’s hand running over the parchment with her plans, as if she were just a normal student and not one of a handful of people who ended Voldemort’s reign of terror.

He felt he’d fallen victim to it, too, with his constant bickering with Malfoy. And then there were his dreams. As Harry sat there at the Gryffindor table—surrounded by hundreds of breakfasting students, eager to start their year off strong—a deep insecurity settled into his stomach.

“Hey, guys,” he said. Ron, who had again been discussing the shortcomings of the Gryffindor team’s new fourth-year keeper, paused, and beside him Hermione looked up from her schedules.

Harry cleared his throat. “Do either of you feel weird at all?”

“Was it the eggs?” Ron asked and looked at his plate.

“No, I mean... Does it feel weird, being back, and kind of like... Like we shouldn’t have come?”

Ron, who had done his best months ago to forget this subject, frowned. “I thought you wanted to come back.”

“I did— I do, but—” Harry couldn’t explain it. He felt it was wrong, but couldn’t have told himself why.

“No, this is good,” Hermione said. “It’s best you get your nerves worked out now before the work starts piling up.”

Harry nodded along to appease them and dropped the subject. Maybe he was going mad after all. _It’s that damn mirror_ , he thought.

Across the hall, the Slytherin table was rather subdued in comparison to the other three Houses. The eighth-years, four of them in total, were sitting at the end of the table near the doors. Their underclassmen kept a large gap between them.

Draco was sitting closest to the center of the table, with quite a bit of space between himself and the other eighth-years, and realized he was probably the reason for the underclassmen’s breadth. He just didn’t care.

He poked at his food, which had long gone cold, with a fork while he waited for class to start. His appetite had become nonexistent, and the soggy scrambled eggs on his plate left him feeling queasy.

The four of them had been sitting in complete silence. There had been unruly clangs of a fork hitting a plate or the occasionally loud slurp of pumpkin juice, but not a word left their lips. Even Daphne Greengrass, who was popular with the underclassmen, kept silent that morning.

It wasn’t until they had been sitting at the table for over forty minutes that Pansy opened her mouth to speak. She leaned back with a sigh and crossed her arms. “It just isn’t fair,” she said.

She waited, obviously expecting someone to ask her _‘Well, what isn’t fair?’_ , but no such question came. So, she continued: “There are so few of us the dorms are practically bare. I think it’s creepy.”

Blaise, after taking a long sip from his goblet, looked at her with his usual measured expression. “What do you expect them to do? We’re the only ones who came back.”

“We’re the only ones who _could_ come back,” Daphne corrected. She had been avoiding even looking at Draco, as if he were diseased, and so only spoke to Blaise and Pansy (and even then—Pansy was more by forced association as the only other girl). Slytherins always protected their image.

“And then there was that speech last night,” Pansy seethed. She was clearly in one of her moods this morning. “With that story about the founders! They always love to rub it in our faces—Slytherin, the problem child! Like the rest of them are such saints.”

“You just have to look at the facts, Pans,” said Blaise with a slight sneer. He never used the nickname except when he was annoyed with her, which Draco thought was often. “Our guys had more defectors. It puts an easy target on your back when you’re born into the ‘wrong side’ of the table.”

Pansy sniffed and moved her attention elsewhere. “Draco,” she said and fixed the boy with a stare. “Surely you think it’s awful, too, being alone in the dormitory.”

Draco shrugged. “It’s better than sharing a room with Blaise again.”

“Agreed,” Blaise said evenly.

Pansy, offended that no one was interested in sympathizing with her plight, stood from the table and began an early start to her classes. The others soon began to follow, with Blaise and Daphne heading off next. Draco pushed his food around one last time before standing, and as he left through the doors, he kept his head down and focused on the work ahead of him.

~~~

The week was going well, Harry thought. Sure, he’d had a bad case of the nerves that first morning, but his classes so far were proving him wrong. This was where he wanted to be.

He was walking with Ron and Hermione from a long morning of Double Potions class. After stopping by the Great Hall for a quick lunch with the other Gryffindors, they were off again to the third floor for Advanced Charms.

Bright sunlight was filtering into the classroom through the tall windows as the eighth-years took their seats. The desks were laid out along the curve of the room, with Flitwick’s desk as the centerpiece.

“It appears that the pre-N.E.W.T.s have started,” Hermione pointed out. There was a noticeable reduction in their numbers. Hannah Abbott was gone, as Hermione had told them, but she apparently wasn’t the only one.

As the class began, Harry looked around again and noted that Malfoy was gone.

“Looks like Malfoy failed his sixth year after all,” Harry said to the other two.

“Good,” Ron replied. “Hopefully he’ll fail his exam and get booted out of eighth year.”

“Attention!” Professor Flitwick called from the room’s center. He stood in front of his desk, which was taller than he was, and to his left stood what Harry recognized as the Mirror, draped in a sheet.

The professor continued, “Welcome to your last Advanced Charms lesson for the week. Today we’ll be discussing the art of bewitchment. Now, who can tell me what it means for something be bewitched?”

Predictably, Hermione’s hand shot up immediately. “A bewitched object,” she stated, “Is one that’s had a lasting charm placed on it. It never fades.”

“Yes, exactly!” Flitwick praised. “As you can imagine, bewitching an object is much harder than simply charming one. It takes great skill and concentration. Coincidentally, it also makes the work of those such as Curse-Breakers much harder.

“There are many objects that have one-of-a-kind bewitchments, using enchantments created solely by the caster. While it takes a great wizard to perform this kind of advanced magic, it would take an even greater wizard to undo his work. Is anyone here interested in pursuing the field of Curse-Breaking?”

A few students tentatively raised their hands.

“Excellent,” Flitwick beamed. “What we’ll be looking at today is one of those unique bewitched objects, and after everyone has had a good look at it, we’ll begin to work through the process of how you might deconstruct the original enchanter’s work.”

With a swish of his wand, the sheet flew off the Mirror and folded itself neatly upon Flitwick’s desk. Those students who hadn’t already known about the magic artifact leaned forward to get a better look at it.

“This is the Mirror of Erised,” he explained. “This object is truly the only of its kind—while we do not know who enchanted it, which will make our work much more difficult, we do know a few things about it. It was bewitched in the late 19th century, and soon after it was brought to Hogwarts and stored here starting around the early 1890s.

“Why it was brought to Hogwarts, we do not know. Many professors, past and present, have enjoyed a vacation or two where they’ve brought back interesting artifacts for their students to study. This mirror was probably no different.

“The mirror stayed in the castle, untouched, for a century, until in 1992 it was sent away, and now it’s come back to us again. Any questions so far?”

One of the Hufflepuff girls raised her hand. “What does the bewitchment do?”

Flitwick grinned and said, “I’m glad you asked. There’s an easy way to find out! Now, I want each of you to come up one at a time and stand in front of the mirror. Then please return to your seat and record on your parchment what it is you saw in the reflection. Let’s begin, now—Miss Li, why don’t you start us off?”

The Ravenclaw girl stood and walked to the Mirror. Upon seeing her reflection, she audibly gasped.

Flitwick hurriedly moved her along, saying, “Don’t tell us what you see—please go write it down! Next student!”

One by one, the eighth-years lined up and looked into the Mirror, each as surprised as the last. Harry stood at the back of the line and prayed that time would run out, but unfortunately, Flitwick saw to it that no one strayed too long in front of their reflection. Perhaps the professor knew the effect it could have.

“All right, Mr. Potter, come along now.”

Everyone else was already at their seats and vigorously writing down what they had seen. Harry walked the short length to the Mirror and stood in front of it. He wasn’t surprised anymore to find nothing but the classroom behind him reflected in its surface.

He quickly nodded and smiled toward Professor Flitwick, who looked utterly taken aback by the boy’s nonchalance, especially after the reactions he’d received from the rest of the class. Harry quickly walked back to his seat and wrote down, _When I looked into the Mirror of Erised, I saw myself with my family—parents, godfather, grandparents and family friends. My reflected self looked very pleased_.

Satisfied with his lie, Harry dropped his quill and sat back in his chair. Many of the class were still writing their thoughts down.

Once the majority of the class was ready to move on, Flitwick asked them to share what they had seen, though he wouldn’t force anyone who didn’t want to divulge.

Ron must have been feeling bold that day, or maybe he just realized Hermione would share hers and he wanted the upper hand, because he was the first to share his reflection with the class. Hermione, of course, one-upped him by mentioning how _her_ reflection showed her as the Minister of Magic. The two of them still had some wrinkles to iron out, Harry suspected.

More than a few shared what they saw, and most of the reflected desires were quite tame, though Harry was caught off guard when Dean mentioned seeing himself flying on a broomstick over the Quidditch pitch with a certain unnamed and most likely ginger-haired witch. He decided to scowl in Dean’s direction for the remainder of the time spent sharing.

It seemed to Harry that most of his peers’ inner desires were focused on romance. Between Ron and Hermione’s shared reflection-future together, Dean’s longing to get back with Ginny, both of the Patil twins seeing two separately specialized fantasies with a boy they’d been fighting over, and Anthony Goldstein’s reflection—which to Harry sounded too uncomfortably close to being an orgy—he was beginning to think he was the only one in the room who _wasn’t_ obsessed with the thought of a relationship.

Sure, he was _in_ one, but it wasn’t the thing possessing his every thought. No, instead, Harry was stuck with his non-reflection. What exactly did that say about him? That he desired to never exist at all?

After Lavender Brown confessed to seeing herself unscarred and in the loving embrace of a _boy_ (Harry unfairly glared at Ron), Flitwick ended the sharing session and began to prepare them for the next step.

“Who would like to guess at how the enchantment works?” he asked.

Respectfully, Hermione kept her hand down since she already knew the answer. She held Ron’s hand down, too, when he thought he could earn himself a bit of attention.

It was Padma who raised her hand and made the guess. “I think it shows us our dreams. How we’d like things to be.”

“Yes! Very good, Miss Patil,” said Flitwick. “The inscription above the mirror is the clue: ‘ _I show not your face but your heart's desire_.’ The mirror has been bewitched to analyze whoever stands in front of it, and to show them what they desire most in life.

“In a way, it works similarly to our own Sorting Hat. Many who use it will not even realize what they desired until it’s staring them back in the face!”

Seamus raised his hand, and when called upon asked, “What do _you_ see in the mirror, Professor?” Some of the students giggled, and Professor Flitwick looked sheepish.

“I see all of you, passing your N.E.W.T.s!” he said in an attempt to appease them all.

“Well, we know it doesn’t show the future, then,” Dean mumbled to Seamus.

“Your assignment for the weekend,” Professor Flitwick announced, “Will be to explore, in writing, how you might attempt to deconstruct the Mirror’s charms. To help you in your research, I have copies of _The Sorting Ceremony: History and Practice_ from our private collection in the library that each of you will take home and study.

“I can’t wait to read your ideas!” he said excitedly. “I myself will be working on this as well, so don’t tie yourself into knots if you can’t find a clear answer. Next week, we’ll begin reviewing your sixth-year spellwork, starting with nonverbal casting and the _Reducto_ curse. Have a good weekend!”

After Harry failed for the fifth time to read the line, _‘Salazar Slytherin was reportedly very skilled in the art of Legilimency, lending credence to the belief of many historical Charms scholars: that the Hat’s complicated enchantment process included a heavily altered variation on the_ Legilimens _charm, which only a master Legilimens could accomplish_ ,’ he sat the paper down in frustration.

He had woken up at the crack of dawn with the intention of getting his essay out of the way before breakfast, and figured he could then take a nap after filling himself with bacon and toast. He was sitting on the wide sill of the common room reading window. The location had become a hotspot for the eighth-years, and was Harry’s main inspiration for forcing himself out of bed at six o’clock in the morning on a Saturday. An hour later, he was already feeling groggy.

The window offered a clear view of the Herbology greenhouses directly below the tower, and further down the cliff, Harry could see the great black lake, which was starting to turn a glittering blue under the rising sunlight. If he pressed his cheek against the cool glass, he could faintly make out the castle’s boathouse further down the lake.

Harry pushed off the window seat and stretched. He walked across to the couches and coffee table and decided he would just bluff the essay.

After another hour had gone by, Harry had finished off his parchment by stating that the Mirror of Erised’s bewitchment must have involved a revised _Legilimens_ charm. Now, _how_ the charm was revised or how it worked, he hadn’t a bastard clue—but Flitwick said not to tie himself into knots over it, so he set his quill down and called it done. He rolled up the parchment and returned everything to his suite on the top floor.

After shutting his door behind him, he carefully checked that Ron’s was necktie-free and proceeded to knock. The door opened quickly—he and Hermione, both inside, had already been in the process of preparing to come down.

The three of them left the tower together and made their way across to the grand staircase. On the way, Hermione questioned Harry on his essay, after he’d announced it was finished. While she agreed with his vague claim about the use of _Legilimens_ , she was miffed that he hadn’t gone into any detail.

“We’re supposed to _explore_ how it might work, you know,” she said.

Harry shook his head. “I don’t plan on being a Curse-Breaker anyway. I’m much better at just blowing things up.”

“Or disarming everybody,” Ron snickered.

As Harry’s foot stepped onto the first-floor landing, he stopped in his tracks. Hermione looked back, confused. “Harry, is something wrong?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Actually, it’s just—I forgot something.”

“Forgot what?” Ron asked.

“My— My parchment. Actually, Hermione made me realize, there _is_ something I want to add to it. You two go on down and I’ll meet you in just a few.”

Hermione was entirely contented by this excuse. “Okay, Harry. See you soon.”

Ron, a lot less convinced, followed behind her after she tugged him down the step.

Harry turned on the spot and jogged up to the third-floor landing. He turned immediately down the Charms corridor and ran into the classroom.

 _If it was Legilimency_ , he thought, _then what is it missing with me_? He wildly considered that maybe he was somehow occluding his thoughts, but even he couldn’t trick himself into believing that. He was absolutely useless at Occlumency, and if he was somehow managing to block the Mirror from reading his desires, then surely everyone else would be as well. Dumbledore had never once mentioned that someone could evade the Mirror’s reflection—even Dumbledore himself, an incredibly powerful wizard, saw himself with socks (though Harry doubted that was what the old Headmaster actually saw).

He realized he probably looked like a madman, running into the empty classroom and scanning the back wall in search of his nightmarish obsession. It had only been a day since he last saw it, and surely Flitwick would be keeping it in the room.

Harry marched to the back, where he’d seen it kept last, but the classroom was empty of anything besides seating and Professor Flitwick’s desk. Unless the Mirror was hidden by means of magic, it was no longer in the Charms classroom. He felt frustrated.

As a last-ditch effort, Harry focused his mind on the Mirror, imagining it standing under its sheet in class. Feeling rather stupid, he shouted, “ _Accio_ Mirror of Erised!” However—probably fortunately for him, really, because if the Mirror had been there it would have full-bodily smacked him—nothing happened.

If he hadn’t been obsessed with the Mirror before—if you counted consecutive vivid dreams about the thing as an obsession—he surely was now. He needed to know what this mirror wanted from him, how it worked, and why it was haunting him in both his sleeping and waking hours. If this thing wanted to play, then Harry would set the game on his own terms.

He was now determined to investigate his disappearance from the Mirror of Erised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to the Harry Potter Wiki, which has been a priceless tool for figuring out how anything works in this story!
> 
> Writing the opening ceremony speech was tough. There’s a lot that could be said, and probably already has been said, many times, by many more people than me. It wasn’t until I was looking at past speeches and songs from the books that I was inspired by the Sorting Hat’s song from Order of the Phoenix. I realized then that the story of Gryffindor and Slytherin’s severed friendship would be a great introduction to the story I’m planning to write. I hope you’ll agree.


	5. The Boathouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If the Headmistress thought inter-House unity was possible, she was sorely mistaken. Harry couldn’t even get all of the eighth-year Gryffindors to agree on something as simple as the rules of Quidditch.

The humming was loud in his ear; Harry ducked just milliseconds before a bludger came flying at his head. It churned the air around him with a _whoosh_ and passed over him.

“Stop cheating, you bastards!” he shouted.

Seamus, snickering, pocketed his wand and high-fived Dean. The two of them were supposed to be playing as a chaser and beater for the opposing team, and while they were doing a damn good job of knocking the bludgers back at Harry’s team, they were using a targeted banishing charm to do it.

The teams were as follows: Harry, Ron, Neville, and Demelza Robins vs. Ginny, Dean, Seamus, and Jimmy Peakes. All of them had a free period on Wednesdays directly after lunch and decided to form teams after wandering off near the Quidditch pitch one afternoon.

In an attempt to make things fair for everyone, all of them jumbled their roles to ones they had little to no experience with. Harry took the role of chaser, which he discovered was much more difficult than he’d thought. He had immediately suggested the role of seeker to Demelza, who he imagined would be much quicker in a pinch than Neville or Ron. That left Ron as their beater and Neville as keeper.

Ginny was chosen as keeper, Dean as beater, Seamus as chaser, and then Jimmy as the seeker. So far, Seamus was doing a much better job at scoring goals than Harry, which then gave him ample time to charm the bludgers and aim them at Harry’s head.

It also didn’t help that Neville was absolutely hopeless at protecting the goals. Ron kept shouting ‘pointers’ at him, which only made Neville anxious and led to more of Seamus’ quaffles getting through the hoops.

They were down sixty points to one hundred and ten; it wasn’t looking very good for them. The only saving grace would be Demelza, since she was a fairer flier and had quicker turns than Peakes, who was burdened by his beater’s build.

Ron smacked the next bludger directly at Seamus, who only narrowly missed getting hit in the chest with it. Taking advantage of the confusion, Harry swooped in on his Firebolt and stole the quaffle out of Seamus’ hands.

He whirled around and narrowed his eyes on Ginny, who sat on her broom far across the field and smirked at him, as if daring him to try getting it past her. While Seamus and Dean had been busy cheating with the bludgers, Harry had formed a new plan of attack.

He flew downward at a sharp angle toward the ground.

“The goal’s _that_ way, Harry!” Seamus jeered at him from far above.

Harry carried on, flying so near to the ground that the tallest blades of grass brushed against his dragonhide glove. The air rushing at him was hot, but he found relief there from the blazing sun overhead. He decided low-flying would be his advantage, as it would be much harder for Ginny to both protect the goal and see him. Of course, he’d still have to come up at some point to get the quaffle into the hoop.

At the last minute, he yanked the broom handle upward at nearly ninety degrees and barreled up directly toward Ginny. She hardly had time to react. By the time he was high enough, he was practically running into her, and his hand touched the hoop as he passed the quaffle through.

“Ten points to Team Harry!” Below in the stands, Hannah and Luna were helping keep score.

That left them with fifty points needed to gain the lead. Harry prayed that Demelza would find the snitch. After having scored, he tried to stop mid-turn but fell directly into Ginny, sending them both tumbling through the middle hoop behind her.

“Foul! That’s a foul!” Dean yelled.

They had both managed to hang on to their brooms and recover—Harry thanked this to their matching dragonhide gloves Ginny had bought. He rocketed back toward the center of the pitch.

“If that was a foul,” Harry said as he flew closer to the rest of the players, “Then Seamus would already be off your team!”

“SNITCH!” Ginny shouted. Everyone looked up—Demelza and Jimmy were already locked in a chase after the little winged ball. They were nearly neck-and-neck when suddenly the snitch veered to the left. Demelza swerved directly in front of the other seeker, cutting him off, and shot in the same direction.

Harry cheered. His bet had paid off. It was only a matter of moments before Demelza’s hand had enclosed over the snitch and won the game for them.

Harry landed heavily on the ground and realized just how sweaty he’d gotten. It was still technically summer and the early afternoon sun, unabated by clouds, was scorching hot on the field. After Ginny landed her broom, she ran up to him and punched him across the shoulder.

“Ow—Hey, what was that for?” Harry asked. She hadn’t actually punched him hard enough to hurt (and he knew from experience she could if she so chose), but he was offended all the same.

Then, as if she couldn’t help herself, Ginny grabbed him and pulled him roughly into a hasty kiss on the lips. When she let go, Harry was blinking rapidly.

“I think I’m getting mixed signals,” he said.

“Good game,” she replied, out of breath. “Say, I was thinking maybe you could show me your rooms tonight. I’ve heard Hermione talk all about them all summer, but none of you invited me. I think you earned the punch just a little.”

“Yeah, all right. How’s after dinner?”

Later that evening, Harry was leading Ginny up the secret spiraling passageway into the Quad Tower. When they came into the common room, Ginny gawked.

“This has loads more space than Gryffindor,” she said.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “I don’t know if they told you, but after this year it’s going to be turned into a common space for all the Houses.”

“Too bad I won’t get to use it, then. Unless I visit with you.”

He showed her the dorms—Ginny was impressed with the layout of the suites, though when she saw the interior of his room, she was disappointed by how cramped it looked.

“Has it been comfortable?” she asked and sat on the bed to test it.

“It’s all right. It is nice to have the privacy, especially with those two next door.”

Ginny grimaced. “’Those _two_?’ Don’t tell me she’s sleeping over every night. And you haven’t asked me over once?”

Harry, guilty as charged, sat down beside her. “I’ve been busy, I guess,” he said lamely. “Sorry, but I think you’re also probably not supposed to be in here.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Ginny was completely unimpressed. “It’s going to be turned into a common area anyway, right? Besides, since when are you a stickler for school rules?”

“You’re right...” Harry sighed, smiling. “I really am sorry.” He watched the paper birds in their cage—they were restless.

Ginny searched his expression. She pushed the stray hairs out of his eyes, though it was useless, because they sprang right back. Ginny grabbed the right side of his face and willed him to look her in the eyes.

“I wish I knew what you were thinking.”

“I’m not thinking anything,” Harry shrugged—and truly, he wasn’t.

Ginny kept playing with his hair while they talked; she loved to do that. “I know it’s been hard for you... But I feel like you’ve become really distant lately. Talk to me, Harry.”

“I...” He wasn’t exactly sure what to say. Theoretically, he could tell her about the Mirror, but he felt it was too soon to tell anyone about that yet. “I’m fine. Really.”

“And why don’t I believe you?”

It was nearing midnight when Harry and Ginny went back into the common room. Harry had had the decency to just lock his door and skip the necktie routine altogether. Also, he didn’t want Ron to hate him for the rest of the week.

As they came off the final step into the room, Harry was surprised to find it was mostly empty. His eyes landed on the only couple left—Malfoy and Parkinson—who were sitting in the shadows, in two chairs beside the reading window.

Ginny and Parkinson locked eyes, and immediately Harry knew it was trouble. Parkinson crossed her arms and sniffed indignantly, saying, “This is _supposed_ to be for eighth-years only, not for trotting out our little underclassmen lovers.”

“Ginny—” Harry tried in vain to stop it before it could start.

The ginger-haired girl marched toward the Slytherin couple, and challenged, “How dare you! How dare you even _speak_ to us after what you did during the battle? Why did you even come back, you snake?”

“It is my right to be here!” Parkinson stated like she’d practiced it before.

“It’s not your right!” Ginny yelled. Harry held his hand to her arm just in case he needed to quickly escape with her before a fight broke out and got them all expelled.

She continued, “Why should you get to go on with your pathetic life? My brother lost his!”

Parkinson visibly squirmed but held her position. She rebutted, “And what makes you think we haven’t lost anyone?”

She gestured between herself and Malfoy, who muttered, “Don’t bring me into this, Pansy.”

Ginny turned on him next. “You brought yourself into it! Both of you! _No one_ wants you here!”

Harry, sensing an opportune moment, lightly pulled Ginny away, telling her, “Ginny, let’s go—they’re not worth it.”

He led her around the spiral staircase and out into the hallway on the fourth floor. As the entrance behind them closed and the stone steps retreated into the floor, Ginny pushed him hard. It hurt.

“What the hell, Ginny? What did I do?”

“It’s what you _didn’t_ do, you stupid git! Do you let them just walk all over you now?”

“Of course not!” Harry said, frowning. “I was trying not to get us both expelled.”

Ginny was fuming. “You’ve changed, Harry.”

His eyebrows flew upward. “What?” he asked, bewildered.

“The Harry I know,” Ginny said, shaking, “Would _never_ have let Parkinson get in another word like that. Why did I have to carry the anger for the both of us?”

“Ginny, I am angry at them. I was on your side, completely.”

“Not the way I saw it,” she said flatly. “I don’t know what’s gotten into your head, but you need to sort it out. I’m not going through that scenario that just happened with you again.” It sounded like a threat.

She began to walk off toward the corridor to the staircase. Harry followed after her. “Let me at least walk you back to Gryffindor Tower?” he asked.

“I can handle myself, and I’m mad at you. Good night, Harry.” She disappeared around the corner.

Harry turned back toward the hallway and heaved a great sigh. On the wall beside him, Cynthia had watched the whole thing go down. “It’s not looking good for you, boy,” she said, shaking her head.

He rubbed his face in frustration. _Fuck it_ , he thought. He jabbed the painting and muttered, “ _Dissendium_.” He ran up the stone steps as they were still ascending and nearly fell into the common room. He drew his wand and was prepared to hex Parkinson _and_ Malfoy into next Sunday if he had to.

Unfortunately, the Slytherins had returned to their private suites. So, rather than put himself at risk of expulsion for attacking his fellow classmates, Harry ran up to his room to grab his cloak and the Marauder’s map, and decided to put himself at risk of expulsion for running around the castle at night instead.

The hunt for the Mirror of Erised was on.

He started back in the Charms classroom first, on the off-chance that the Mirror had been returned to it since he last checked. Of course, that hadn’t happened. Harry sat at one of the desks and looked over the Marauder’s map while he decided what his next move should be. He saw that Filch and his cat were working their way around the sixth-floor corridor, but no one else was out of bounds.

His next best guess was the storage room. After all, it was the room he’d originally found the Mirror in, all the way back in his first year. Harry got up and doubled back to the fourth floor.

In the room, there were still many items left behind that Harry and Neville had recovered from the Room of Requirement. It made the work of looking for the Mirror a bit more difficult. He spent upwards of a good thirty minutes looking through the room piece-by-piece, making sure to move things aside in case it had been tucked behind something.

Suddenly, a great cluttering of _clangs_ spilled across the room, shocking Harry after he’d become attuned to the silence. He looked around wildly and saw that a cupboard full of goblets had been knocked over onto the stone floor.

“My, my, my...” said an awful and familiar voice. Harry looked up and saw Peeves float down from the ceiling. “What a little Naughty Potty, staying out of bed after hours. Should I go find Mr. Filch for you?”

Harry sighed and returned to looking. “Sure, go ahead and get him, thanks.”

“Well, you’re no fun,” Peeves said with a sour face. “I’ll go find someone who’s more receptive to my haunting.”

“All right, see ya.”

“By the way...” the poltergeist kept on. Harry sighed. He supposed Peeves couldn’t help but be an incessant chatterbox.

Peeves fixed him with a grin. “You’re not the only one who’s been into wandering around the castle these days.” With that, he floated away and disappeared into the ceiling.

 _Okay, weird,_ Harry thought. He figured there were probably plenty of underclassmen who snuck around at night on occasion. It was basically a Hogwarts tradition. He spent another twenty minutes before he felt he’d searched the whole room. It was a bust.

He checked the time with a _Tempus_ spell: it was nearing two in the morning. He briefly debated going up to the seventh floor to check there, but seeing as he was already on the fourth, Harry decided to return to his dorm for the night—er, morning.

He laid his head on his pillow and shut his eyes. The paper birds beside him were so restless and angry that Harry had to cast a silencing charm on them in order to sleep.

~~~

Through the next two weeks, Harry had had no better luck in finding where the Mirror was relocated to. Flitwick had moved on to new material and never mentioned it in class.

It was Monday morning, which meant Double Potions. Usually, this would have been a horrible start to the week, but Harry had a secret. Firstly, the class was much easier on his mental state with Slughorn at the helm, since the man seemed to spend his every waking moment praising Harry, convinced that he was a Potions prodigy.

But the secret, of course, and the reason why Slughorn pictured him a genius, was the book of the Half-Blood Prince. Over the summer, after he found and retrieved the book from the Room of Requirement’s rubble, Harry sought out George to ask him a favor.

Together, the two of them devised something ingenious: using a fresh Potions book bought from Diagon Alley, they managed to copy all of Snape’s notes from the Prince’s book over to Harry’s new one—and the best part was that George had figured out how to turn the handwritten notes on and off with a disillusionment charm.

And so, Harry got to keep his status as Potions-genius all while hiding his deception from anyone who asked, especially Hermione. After their very first lesson the first week, she had ripped the book out of Harry’s hands and examined every page over lunch. Luckily for him, he’d turned on the charm before she grabbed it, and so Hermione was left very disappointed and determined to improve her own Potions skills.

As they walked into the classroom together that Monday, Harry clutched his book tightly.

“You’ll be working in groups of two today,” Slughorn began at the head of their lesson. “We’re going to be brewing the Dreamless Sleep Potion to prepare you for your N.E.W.T.s. When you finish, one of you will test the potion while the other stands by to assess your reaction to the potion’s affects. Be cautious not to take too much—this is a very powerful potion and I don’t want you to be late to lunch!”

Everyone began to split off into pairs. Harry looked around. “Hey, where’s Neville?” he asked Ron.

“Oh, didn’t you see him in the common room this morning? Said he came down with something bad.”

“Well, that’s just great,” Harry huffed. Neville was his go-to partner seeing as Ron and Hermione were inseparable.

It seemed to Harry that everyone had found a partner but him. Seamus and Dean were squared up, Lavender with Parvati, and Padma with Goldstein; the remainder of the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws were paired off together—Hannah Abbott was working with Sue Li—and then of course, the Slytherins: Zabini was with Greengrass, and Malfoy and Parkinson were together.

Ever since her fight with the Weasley girl, Pansy had been acting displaced. Draco became the duct into which she ventilated every second of every day—and he was utterly exhausted by it. They were partnered up for Double Potions, and already Pansy had launched into another frantic rant.

“It must be nice—being Daphne Greengrass,” she spewed while attempting to slice open a sopophorous bean. The bean kept bouncing with each violent stab. Draco worried she might slice his fingers off instead, so he left a good distance between them.

“The star of Slytherin!” she continued. _Here we go again,_ Draco thought. Pansy threw her knife down upon the table and said, “Have you noticed that Professor Slughorn spends all his time with her and Zabini rather than us? And _he’s_ Head of Slytherin!”

“Yes,” Draco droned. He had heard this exact rant at least once in every Potions class so far.

“What do you think it is? Is it my hair? Draco, look at me when I’m talking to you!”

Draco, who was busy crushing the wormwood and lavender into a fine paste, fixed her with a glare. “You _know_ why, Pansy. Are you going to cut those beans or not?”

“Actually—” Pansy roughly grabbed her Potions book off the table and turned up her nose. “I’m not. Professor Slughorn, I feel ill. I’m taking my leave.”

The professor, who’d been examining Blaise’s mixture at the table next to theirs, turned around and regarded them briefly. Slughorn was fairly easy to convince. “Yes, very well, Miss Paterson. You’ll need to remember to submit your own brew before the next class.”

“Fine,” Pansy said, clearly irritated that Slughorn had butchered her surname. She marched out of the room without a backwards glance.

“Er—Sir, I think everyone’s partnered up. Should I work on my own?” Harry asked as Parkinson ran past him and out of the room.

“Oh, Harry, let me see what I can do for you.” Slughorn’s eyes lit up at once. He looked around the dungeon room briefly before spotting Malfoy. _Oh, fuck me_ , Harry thought.

“It seems you’re in luck,” Slughorn told him. “A spot just opened up here. Go on and get to work—you won’t want to waste time. Your N.E.W.T.s will be closer than they seem!”

“Sir—” Harry was prepared to argue his case, though he knew it was hopeless.

“Is something wrong, dear boy?” Slughorn looked at him, and it was clear the old man felt this conversation was becoming a bit of a bother. It didn’t take long with him.

“No, thanks,” Harry muttered and walked to the other side of Malfoy’s desk. He threw his book down and opened it to the appropriate page.

“Malfoy,” he said in acknowledgement.

“Potter.” Malfoy had already started on the potion and was beginning to pour his own ingredients into the cauldron.

Harry subtly tapped his book with his wand and used a nonverbal spell to turn off the disillusionment charm. He saw that the sopophorous beans were already set out on his side of the table, so he began to crush them.

After he had crushed the last bean open and was adding the juice to their cauldron, Harry started coughing uncontrollably. There was a thick plume of smoke coming from somewhere behind them, and it smelled heavily of sweet flowers. Within moments, everything went black as he lost consciousness.

~~~

 _Thwunk._ The sound startled him awake. He was lying down on something hard but felt like he was suspended in air—he was swaying gently back and forth. When he opened his eyes, it was too dark to discern anything about his surroundings.

Slowly, Harry moved his hand in search of something he could lift himself up with, and as he did, it rubbed roughly against what felt like wood. “ _Ow_!” Harry startled. A thick splinter embedded itself into the side of his palm.

 _Thunk_. Harry tenderly pushed himself into a sitting position and lit his wand. The spell spread its light all around and showed him that he was sitting in one of the lake boats inside the boathouse. The boat’s lantern light had burnt out and gone cold, and the boat itself was tied off to the dock. Every now and then, a small wave would roll in and push it into the dock. _Thwunk_.

Harry quickly looked down at his hands and legs—he was normal; eighteen years old. He felt confused. _This isn’t a dream?_

He jumped up onto the dock and made his way out of the boathouse. Despite how dark it had been inside, there was still light outside. He figured it was around early evening. The staircase up to the entrance hall loomed above, and as he began the long ascent, it gave Harry plenty of time to think.

He had no idea what day it was—he thought he was supposed to be in Potions class. Even if he had passed out, how in the world did he end up on a boat on the black lake? Nothing made sense to him anymore.

The last dream he could remember involved the boathouse—was he sleepwalking now? If that was the case, he should count himself lucky he didn’t walk straight into the lake itself. It concerned him that his dreams were affecting reality so heavily again.

He walked through the entrance hall door, which creaked as he drew it open with his uninjured hand, and he paused to decide which way he should go. If it was evening, it might already be time for dinner, which would explain why Harry saw no one on the marble stairs ahead of him.

However, he wasn’t hungry yet, and the splinter in his hand was already stinging, so he decided it would be better to head up to his suite and secure his bearings first. He decided that once he saw Ron and Hermione, he would tell them everything, and hope that between the three of them they could figure out how Harry had ended up at the docks.

As he walked up the grand staircase, gingerly holding his hand away from his side so it wouldn’t rub against his robes, he began to feel that something was off. Now, if it was dinnertime, it wouldn’t be out of the question for the halls to have emptied out, though he’d usually expect to see _some_ stragglers wandering about.

However, the castle was completely silent; even the air was still. As he reached the fourth floor, he hadn’t seen any other presence besides himself; every floor, and corridor, was empty.

Harry turned past the library and began to sprint across the corridor, thinking: _Fuck,_ _it_ is _another dream_. He crossed to the end of the hall and turned left toward the tower entrance. He came to a stop in-between the two windows on the southern wall and found himself standing in front of the Mirror of Erised. It showed him only the blank stone wall he stood in front of.

Harry carefully held his wand and placed the tip against the mirror glass. “ _Dissendium_ ,” he said. The glass cracked, sparks flying off the wand tip and singeing his robes, and a sudden blast threw Harry against the back wall. His head smacked the stone. All he could see were stars.

When Harry woke up, he felt like he was dead. He _thought_ he was dead. He was horribly groggy, his whole body felt like mush, and his tongue tasted stale. His eyes opened to the blinding whites of the Hospital wing.

He sat up from his hospital bed. The white sheet that had been laid across his chest fell to his lap. His head was pounding. “ _Ugh_ —”

“How are you feeling?” Beside him, sitting in a chair, was Hermione.

“Awful,” was all that Harry managed to choke out. He found a glass of water on the bedside table and chugged the whole thing. “What happened?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Seamus and Dean. I don’t know _how_ those two advanced to N.E.W.T. level in anything. They were messing around, not paying any attention, and accidentally put in whole lilacs instead of crushed lavender and it caused their cauldron to smoke.

“Unfortunately, you were in the blast radius, since they were right behind you. The four of you got the most of it.”

“Four?” Harry asked, confused.

Hermione pointed across the ward, where Malfoy was lying down and clutching his forehead.

“Where are Seamus and Dean then?”

Hermione’s shoulders heaved with the weight of her sigh. She explained, “Well, _they_ weren’t hit as badly as you two, because they tried using a banishing charm. Of course, that only blew it toward you.”

“I’m going to hex both of them the next time we have a Quidditch match.”

“I wouldn’t blame you. Anyway, it knocked all of you out immediately. Though I doubt it gave you a very ‘dreamless’ sleep. You were thrashing around a bit.”

“Oh. Yeah, just a weird dream. Nothing out of the ordinary for me, though.” He could almost still feel the waves of the black lake rolling through his body.

“So, dinner’s soon. Do you feel up to leaving yet?”

“No,” Harry said. He didn’t think he could stand without wobbling. “I think I’ll ask Kreacher to bring me something. I feel bloody exhausted.”

“All right,” Hermione said and stood. “I’ll see you in the common room later, then. If you need anything, just send me a Patronus.”

Harry sat his head back against his pillow as she left the wing. He looked toward the door and saw Madam Pomfrey bustling in with a scared-looking first-year student. She sat the girl down on one of the beds and examined her right hand.

“Now, tell me from the beginning,” Pomfrey demanded.

The girl, a Hufflepuff by the looks of her robes, had eyes as big as saucers and a quivering lip. “It bit me!” she said. Her voice was watery; Harry felt bad for the girl.

“From the beginning, dearie—please.”

“I was going to the library with one of my friends. Professor Clearwater assigned us to write about the transfiguration formula...” The little girl leaned forward and whispered, “She frightens me a little.”

Harry smiled to himself. The new temporary Transfiguration professor (only for the lower years—McGonagall was still teaching N.E.W.T. level) was Penelope Clearwater, and Harry supposed that anyone who was capable of being in a relationship with Percy Weasley must be a little scary.

“And what happened then?” Pomfrey asked, trying not to smile.

“Well, I was reading what we were supposed to, but I didn’t understand any of it. My friend was trying to help me, but Professor Clearwater said this is going to be a big part of our first semester grade, and I was worried that I would mess up...

“So I turned around to get my parchment and quill out of my bag, but when I came back to the table, there was already a piece of parchment set out. I wrote my name down on it, but then I started to get worried again, so I tried to read the book again, but—” The girl was trying hard to not cry.

“The parchment bit me!” she exclaimed. “I think it knew I was going to fail!”

“Now, now,” Pomfrey tried to soothe her. “I think this is a case of someone pulling a prank on you. Let’s see it.”

Madam Pomfrey inspected the girl’s hand. “It’s not more than a paper cut. This is a quick fix.” To prove her point, she waved her wand, and the girl saw that her hand was healed. “Hurry off now, you don’t want to miss dinner.”

She watched the girl leave and then muttered to herself, “That Weasley joke shop will have me working overtime this year.” Pomfrey turned and marched over to Harry’s bed.

“Potter, how are you feeling? Still groggy?”

After she checked him over, Harry called Kreacher and requested a dinner be brought to his bed. The house-elf was more than happy to oblige and returned with a steaming beef and vegetable roast, browned rolls, and a heaping slice of berry pie for dessert.

“Thanks,” Harry said and bit into one of the rolls.

“Should Kreacher bring something for the young Master Malfoy as well?” The old elf was on his toes, peering over Harry’s bed at Malfoy while he clutched at the locket hanging around his neck. Clearly, Kreacher felt that anyone who was even remotely descendent of Regulus’ bloodline must be a god walking amongst mortals.

“Whatever makes you happy, Kreacher. Go ask him.” Harry was too distracted by food to care. He sunk his teeth into the roast and nearly moaned.

Kreacher practically flew over to Malfoy’s bed—he looked like he was walking on clouds he was so elated. Malfoy looked terrified of the elf when he saw the pitiful creature’s sagging grin. The moment was so absurd that Harry felt he was getting dinner _and_ a show.

When Kreacher returned with the second plate of food and sat it delicately on Malfoy’s bed, Harry waited to see what his reaction would be. The blond, as if sensing he was being watched, briefly turned and looked directly into Harry’s eyes. _Go on, you prat_ , Harry was thinking. _Say something_.

Malfoy looked down at Kreacher and muttered, with a lot of struggle, “T-Thanks?”

The look on the house-elf’s face was so intense that Harry thought for a moment he had actually, finally died. It was—for lack of a better word—serene. Kreacher nearly smacked his head against the floor when he bowed. “Anything for the noble house of Black,” he croaked.

The Slytherin’s expression remained disturbed despite the praise. The git hardly understood how Kreacher thought of him. Harry privately imagined that the house-elf was keeping a shrine somewhere to the whole family tree.

After Kreacher disapparated with a loud _CRACK_ , Harry said to Malfoy, “Be nice to him—he thinks you’re a saint.”

“He’d be the only one,” Malfoy muttered to himself, though the sound carried across the empty ward. “Do you know that thing?” he asked to Harry with a slight sneer.

“He’s mine. I inherited him.”

Malfoy’s spoon froze in midair; a carrot slice fell back onto his plate. “Then why in Merlin’s name would your house-elf think of me as a saint?”

It hadn’t occurred to Harry until then how odd that comment must have come off. Malfoy probably wondered if the elf was batty or if Harry had actually been praising the Slytherin in private—as if _that_ were possible.

Harry explained, “He worked for the Black family. He thinks they’re all saints, even though they all probably treated him like rotting garbage.”

“He looks like rotting garbage,” Malfoy said, mumbling into his spoon.

 _Ah, there it is_ , Harry thought as he finished chewing his roast beef. He’d felt the conversation had gone far too long without any bite. This was his way in.

“I realize it doesn’t come naturally to a Slytherin like you,” Harry said, “But you should avoid insulting someone who’d run to the moon and back for you.”

“It’s a house-elf. That’s what they do,” Malfoy grumbled, seemingly perplexed by Harry’s defense of the thing. “Besides, he could most likely apparate to the moon; he wouldn’t have to run.”

Harry was so caught off guard by the blond’s literal interpretation of his words that he didn’t have a retort ready to fire back. He stuffed the rest of his roll into his mouth and tried not to laugh at the weirdness of it all.

After finishing his pie in awkward silence, Harry threw his legs over the side of the bed and tested his weight on them. The earlier wobbliness was gone and his head felt much clearer; he stood up and adjusted his robes. Briefly, he glanced back at Malfoy, who he saw was still prodding at his food with a spoon, and then Harry pivoted and walked to the doors of the wing.

Dinner appeared to be coming to an end; as Harry turned left toward the marble stairs, he nearly ran headfirst into a group of fifth-year Ravenclaws coming from the opposite direction. He swerved around them and thanked his stars that they weren’t first-years, or he’d have been chased down for autographs.

“Stewart, get back—it’s one of the Slytherins!”

Harry stopped in his tracks and looked back. One of the Ravenclaw girls was pulling her friend Stewart, a tall and anxious-looking fellow, away from the wall and back into their cluster. Almost like a flock of birds, the fifth-years migrated to the far wall on the other side, giving the aforementioned Slytherin a wide berth.

Malfoy walked toward Harry at a steady pace, keeping his head down and ignoring the other students in the hall. He barely gave the spectacled boy a glance before passing him and heading to the grand staircase, presumably to make his way to their dormitory. Harry walked along behind him.

A shrill scream stopped both of them in their tracks as they hit the second floor—it echoed hauntingly off the walls toward them. Harry quickly drew his wand and was about to run off down the corridor when another scream, followed by laughter, bounced off the walls.

Coming around the corner at the end of the corridor, a mixed group of first-years were all giggling. One of the girls leading the group, a Gryffindor, playfully shoved a boy from her House and said to him, “Next time I’ll stick one of those under your pillow while you’re sleeping and see how _you_ like it.”

The boy grinned. He was holding a Weasley product; Harry thought it might be some type of firecracker.

Harry let out a breath he didn’t even know he’d been holding. As he pocketed his wand, he heard another girl shout, “Look!”

Harry looked up and saw that a first-year Hufflepuff was pointing directly at him.

“Shit,” he breathed. He cut clear across from them to the next set of stairs; he heard some of the kids calling his name and running after him, but he had the advantage of fully-grown legs and took the steps two at a time.

He ran down the fourth-floor corridor and came to a stop in front of Cynthia’s portrait. His breathing was ragged.

“What’s the rush?” Cynthia asked.

“ _Dissendium_ ,” Harry wheezed and pressed the canvas with his wand. He heard footsteps rushing toward him and hoped the rumbling stone stairs would move faster. Really, the whole ‘magical stepping stones’ gimmick was a bit frustrating in a crunch.

“Wait!” The tone was slightly panicked. Harry looked and saw Malfoy running around the corner toward him.

“Oh,” was all Harry managed to say as the Slytherin came to a stop in front of him, leaning on his knees and trying to control his breathing. Abruptly, Malfoy straightened up and fixed his necktie, which had gone askew during the chase.

“Are any of them coming?” Harry asked him.

“No. They stopped right after they saw me. Then they ran in the opposite direction.” Malfoy slightly smirked. “Wait—” he said again as Harry was about to go up into the tower.

“What is it now?”

Malfoy brushed off his robes with the back of his hand. “I talked to Parkinson about the earlier incident. She promised me she’d lay off it, assuming your... friends do the same.”

The words were clearly calculated, and possibly rehearsed. Harry blinked. Was Malfoy trying to _apologize_ to him? Perhaps it was an attempt at a truce. But between Slytherins and Gryffindors, whether they were House-less eighth-years or not, truces were bound to fail.

“Something to keep in mind,” Malfoy finished with a bit of an edge, and then he took the steps and disappeared around the spiraling staircase.

“I’m getting tired of holding this open, you know,” Cynthia said in a strained voice to Harry’s side.

“Sorry,” Harry replied. The window pane closed behind him as he ascended to the common room.


	6. A Dawning Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The season had seemed to change in an instant, and with it came much darker nights and harder rains. Harry only hoped there would be a calm at the end.

Only two days after Seamus and Dean had clumsily turned their Potions assignment into an instant knockout gas, Harry was plotting his revenge as he walked onto the Quidditch pitch. The sky overhead was cloudy and turning grey, and the air was much cooler than it had been in months. They had quickly stumbled into Autumn, and Harry was glad to finally have the fair weather for flying.

“Do you think it’s going to rain?” Neville asked him nervously as they were prepping for the next game.

They kicked off, and immediately a torrent of icy air whipped against his face and snapped him out of his post-lunch lethargy. Harry flew to the center of the pitch, where Seamus was waiting with the quaffle.

“No hard feelings for the other day, eh?” Seamus asked. Harry was glaring down at him through his goggles, and the other boy looked back at him, merely amused.

“We’ll see after this game’s finished,” Harry replied.

Seamus tossed the quaffle high, and the game began. Harry was first to it and took it under his arm; he dived and shot off at great speed toward the goal rings, where Ginny was waiting for him.

For the past two weeks, she’d been giving him the cold shoulder at any attempt to reconcile their earlier argument in the fourth-floor corridor. It was driving Harry mad—this was the first big fight they’d ever gotten into, and he’d had no idea how long the girl could hold a grudge. Even his status as ‘Savior of the Wizarding World’ wasn’t enough to stop the wrath of Ginny Weasley.

As he crossed the field with the quaffle, Ginny locked eyes with his, and he swore he could see flames burning within her pupils. This was going to be a tough game.

He aimed and flung the quaffle with all his strength, but Ginny blocked it easily, kicking it with precision straight into Seamus’ open arms. The opposing team whooped as Seamus earned them their first goal.

By the time the game was tallied forty points to zero, and the sky above had turned dark and started to sprinkle raindrops down on them, Harry was frustrated. He was cold, and his plan to wipe the floor with Seamus and Dean wasn’t working—in fact, they’d already brushed him with a bludger or two. He was also exhausted by Ginny’s aloof treatment; every time he tried to score, she’d block his move without much of a glance.

Harry grit his teeth. All he had tried to do was stop an argument and have a peaceful year, and now half of his friend group was seemingly mocking his naiveté for thinking that was possible. When Seamus caught the quaffle once more, he’d had enough. Harry quickly drew his wand and shouted above the wind, “ _Flipendo_!”

The quaffle, as if it had hit an invisible wall, bounced out of Seamus’ bewildered hands and back into the air. Harry swooped in and caught it.

“You’re a cheat!” Dean yelled at him.

“It serves you both right!” The sprinkled rain turned into a full, light rainfall. Harry flew off toward the goals, thankful for his new goggles. He threw the quaffle again, and Ginny blocked it with her broom handle.

For once, she looked at him. “You can use all the jinxes you like. They won’t save you from me,” she said in a hard tone.

“Ten points to team Ginny!” Hannah shouted shrilly from the ground below. Somehow, within the short amount of time she’d taken to speak to Harry, she’d distracted him enough to land another goal for her team.

After that, the rain grew harsher, and the game along with it. All rules had been thrown out the window between the chasers and beaters—Ron took Harry’s lead and started charming the bludgers or quaffle—whichever he could get his aim on first. Seamus and Dean in return became just as reckless, if not even more so. And the worst part was that _they_ were still scoring goals.

The rain was pouring like buckets over their heads. Thunder had started to boom from all sides, and whether Demelza and Jimmy, the seekers, were still playing along with them, Harry had no clue. He could only see a few feet in front of him at any moment, and his only focus was on getting the quaffle.

Lightning cracked, and in its illumination Harry finally spotted the ball as it was being passed from Dean to Seamus. He aimed with his wand while the quaffle was still hung in the air mid-toss and cast a summoning charm. It rocketed into his hands.

Harry could barely hear their angry shouts over the brewing storm. Thinking the weather would finally be his advantage and that he’d raise their zero to a whole ten points, he turned his broom toward Ginny.

Unfortunately, what Harry didn’t anticipate was that the weather could be a disadvantage as well, and that a well-timed thunder clap would hide the sound of air churning directly toward his exposed side.

Suddenly, one of Dean’s charmed bludgers slammed into his ribs and took his breath away. As Harry reflexively dropped the quaffle and started slipping off his broom, he silently cursed himself for not keeping a grip on the handle. What use were his dragonhide gloves if he didn’t have the sense to keep a hand on his broom?

All he knew was the roaring rush of wind and rain as he fell to the ground, and then everything turned black.

“ _Harry!_ ”

He was lying on the grass, his arms sinking into the mud, and soaked to the bone. He was freezing. Though he could still hear rain pattering harshly above him, he couldn’t feel it on his face. Harry opened his eyes and saw that he was surrounded; everyone was bent over him and looking worried, except for Luna, who was standing and holding an umbrella charm above them all with a smile.

“You guys need to stop knocking me out,” Harry gritted. “You’re going to kill me.” He lifted himself up by his elbows, causing his arms to sink even further.

Ginny, who was leaning closely over him and had looked so concerned only moments ago, scowled at him. “You—stupid—git!” She punctuated the words by smacking her fists against his chest, knocking him back to the ground.

“You’re lucky I haven’t hexed you yet myself!” Ginny said. “What in the world were you thinking out there?”

“I was thinking,” Harry wheezed and pushed himself into a sitting position, “That I was paying those two back for what they did to me in Potions class!”

Affronted, Dean said, “If I’d known it was that serious to you, I’d have just apologized up front. We didn’t mean anything by it, mate.”

“He’s barmy,” Seamus muttered.

“Listen, Harry,” Dean continued, “It wasn’t anything against you. It was heat of the moment and I thought I could aim it at that wanker, Malfoy.”

“Well that didn’t exactly work, did it?” Harry nearly yelled. His blood was pulsing.

“’S not our fault _you_ partnered up with him,” spat Seamus.

At the same time as Ginny asked accusingly, “You _what_?”, Harry shouted, “I didn’t have a choice!”

He tried to cool himself down before things got any worse. His side was beginning to ache. “Look, just forget it, okay? Let’s all say we’re even and move on.”

As Ron helped him up, Seamus backed away and sneered. “Next time save your jinxes for someone who’s earned it,” he said. “Try starting with Malfoy; he’s the one who joined the Dark Army, not us.”

Harry stood, clutching his side and breathing heavily, and chose to say nothing. He felt Ron’s tight grip on his shoulder, and the message was clear: _Lay off it_. If McGonagall heard about any of this, they’d likely all be packing their bags that night. If unity were possible between the Houses, Harry wouldn’t believe it—they couldn’t even achieve it within their own House.

He watched as Dean and Seamus ran off back toward the castle, holding their hoods tightly around their faces for protection from the downpour. Beside him, Ginny stood up and said to Luna, “Thanks for your help. I can take over from here.” She cast her own umbrella charm, and so Luna left for the castle too.

Ginny looked between Ron and Neville and dismissed them, assuring that she and Harry could make it back to the castle all right on their own. It was clear she needed to speak with him in private, probably to add another argument to their current row. As Ron walked away, he gave Harry one last solemn shake of his head in pity.

She waited until the others were out of sight to say anything; the rain was smacking hard against the umbrella charm above them and thunder was still rolling over the pitch. As Harry stood in wait, the pressure on his side was growing. A sharp pain struck against his ribs and he winced.

“Are you hurt badly?” Ginny asked in worry. With his help, she lifted his uniform up to his chest and grimaced when she saw how badly bruised his side was. His skin had turned red and hot where the bludger made contact. “You need to go to Madam Pomfrey.”

“I will,” Harry winced again as she smoothed out his shirt. “But go on and have it out on me first. My ribs can wait.”

Ginny frowned. “I don’t understand you.”

“I just... I made a bad call, all right? I let it get too far. It’s over.”

“But Harry, don’t you see that’s what’s confusing me? You were throwing jinxes at Dean and Seamus, and nearly got yourself killed in the process, over what—some potion? But you couldn’t even say a _word_ to the Slytherins? Help me understand.”

“It’s— Dean and Seamus are my friends, right? I guess with them it’s just easier to... I don’t know, lose control? And like I said, I realize I went way too far with it. I know I’ve been a little out of sorts lately.”

Ginny stared at him.

“Okay, a _lot_ out of sorts, all right?” he conceded. “But think about it, Ginny. If I started a fight with Malfoy, the only way it could end is with one or both of us dead. That practically already happened when I was in sixth year. Remember?”

She sighed, “Yes, I remember.” Thunder rumbled overhead.

“And I did talk to them, by the way,” Harry continued. “Well, it was more like Malfoy talked to me.”

She was skeptical. “What did he say?”

“It was a truce of sorts. If they don’t bother us, we won’t bother them, and vice-versa. I think it’s the best we can hope for going forward.”

Ginny’s umbrella charm was beginning to weaken, having been hammered nonstop by the storm. It shrunk slightly, allowing rain to cascade off onto Harry’s backside. He shivered. In front of him, Ginny was still standing, analyzing him with a shrewd expression.

“You really think so?” she asked.

“At this point, I’d just like to get through the year here without any more hexes or fighting. I know, it’s probably impossible. But at the least I was thinking we can avoid the usual near-death experiences. Starting from now, I mean.”

Ginny allowed herself to laugh. “I was about to say, it’s a bit too late for that.”

He grinned. Then he wondered, “How exactly did I survive that fall anyway?”

“Oh, Harry, it was a wreck. I was so worried we wouldn’t be able to get to you in time with all the rain. All of us got our wands out and cast the slowing charm on you at the same time. I think it was all the spells hitting you at once that actually made you pass out—not the fall.”

“Well, thanks at least for not letting me die. Even if you were still mad at me.”

“You know I missed you,” Ginny said and kissed his cheek. Then she punched his shoulder. “But I _am_ still mad at you, just so you know.”

“Noted.” Harry rubbed his shoulder only briefly before he had to return his hold on his side. “I better be off to Pomfrey’s now, then. That bludger bloody hurts.”

“I’ll walk you there.” Ginny re-cast the umbrella charm and led him across the pitch; their boots stuck to the mud, leaving each step a struggle until they made it to the northside path. By the time he made it inside, his ribs felt sore beyond repair. He’d be glad to lie on the hospital bed and take a dreamless sleep potion.

~~~

The following Friday afternoon, the eighth-years were all sitting in Advanced Charms and practicing extension charms on tinderboxes. They were supposed to be able to fit a full scroll of parchment lengthways into their box by the end of class, but so far, only Hermione was able to do it. Thanks to her previous experience with the spell, she’d been able to fit twelve full scrolls into hers.

“Very well done, Miss Granger!” Flitwick praised her as he inspected the tinderbox. “For your excellent spellwork, you’ll be taking home the prize today.”

He presented her with a gift basket of chocolate frogs, licorice wands, and cauldron cakes. Immediately, after the professor had walked away, Ron snapped up two of the frogs and tossed one to Harry.

“You could have asked,” Hermione said.

Ron diligently unwrapped his frog and examined the card inside. “Damn. Another Ravenclaw... I think that makes fifty. Who’d you get?”

“Celestina Warbeck, ‘the singing sorceress,’” Harry read as he opened it.

“Not bad. Want to trade? Mum would love if I sent her one of those.”

“Go for it.” Harry passed the card to him and bit off a piece of his frog. He turned back to his tinderbox, which he’d only managed to fit his scroll about halfway into so far.

“ _Capacious extremis_ ,” he chanted, slightly mumbling around the chocolate in his mouth, and tapped the box with his wand. The extension charm shrank in protest, and now his scroll only fit at a quarter length.

“So, Harry,” Ron started from beside him. If it was any consolation, at least Ron’s tinderbox was worse off than his—instead of extending the inside, the box had physically grown in size, defeating the purpose of the charm. And Ron had yet to figure out how to get it back to its actual size.

Ron leaned over and spoke in a hushed tone: “What’s up with you and Ginny?”

“Oh,” Harry said. “It’s nothing. She’s just a bit sour about our fight.”

“So that’s nothing?”

“Well, surely you get it. You and Hermione have little arguments all the time, don’t you?”

“But that’s different, isn’t it?” Ron checked to make sure Hermione wasn’t listening in. “Besides, that’s us. This is my sister we’re talking about now. She doesn’t get mad for nothing.”

“I’ll work it out—eventually. Don’t worry about it. Hey, watch out...” He looked and watched as Ron, distracted, tapped his tinderbox with his wand. The box grew even larger, stretching so that it looked it might burst, and then suddenly shrank to about half the size of Harry’s box.

“Bloody hell,” Ron said and stared at it. “I think my tinderbox is broken.”

Hermione, who had watched the box’s struggle, sighed to herself and then tapped the box with her own wand. It grew back to the correct size at last.

_Tap — Tap — Tap — Tap-Tap_.

Each nervous shake of Pansy’s crossed leg was causing her shoe to noisily tap against Draco’s robes, and it was slowly driving him up the wall. He was sitting in class and trying to focus on his extension charm, but the distraction sitting next to him was causing his spells to falter.

He wondered why she bothered to come at all—Pansy was just sitting there, with her arms crossed and tinderbox forgotten on the table, and she was glaring across the room at a certain Gryffindor trio.

“Can you believe her?” she said in a low growl. “Between her and Greengrass, I’m not sure who annoys me more. Why does Granger always insist on showing everyone up? Draco, don’t you have _anything_ to say?”

“No,” he drawled.

“What about you, Blaise?” The Slytherin in question was sitting to the right of her. She leaned toward him and asked in a near whisper, “Surely you hate being shown up by a muggleborn?”

“Spellwork can always be improved upon. _Other_ features can’t be attained no matter what you do,” he replied.

Although Zabini had kept his head low throughout the War, his position on blood status was well-known throughout the Slytherin dormitories. It was a topic he and Draco had easily agreed upon when they first met—and about the only thing they had agreed upon, as they quickly discovered after being housed together in the dungeons for several years.

Some of the things Blaise said in the privacy of his fellow Slytherins had made even Pansy squirm from time to time. Of course, much the same could be said about Draco in some circles, but Pansy put up with him much more readily.

“Pans, remember the agreement we made?” Draco said. “Stop fixating on them so much, and we can get this year over with faster.”

“You’re one to talk about _fixating_ ,” Blaise said with a horrible grin. There had been a time during fifth year when Draco was so intent to discover Potter’s hideout that he’d started dreaming about it and saying the Gryffindor’s name aloud in his sleep. Zabini would never let him live it down.

Ignoring him, Draco said to Pansy, “Get back to your tinderbox before Flitwick comes over here.”

“He’ll never come over here,” Pansy sniffed. “It’s like we’re a disease no matter where we go.”

“You’re both diseased, maybe,” Blaise said. “Daphne and I, on the other hand, haven’t had nearly as many issues. Perhaps being a Slytherin isn’t the problem unless you’re also an insufferable cunt, _Pans_.”

Ever since the start of term, Draco’s growing re-exposure to Zabini had him quickly climbing up Draco’s list of most-hated people. Currently, he decided that he would put Blaise at #1.

Pansy was left too upset to say anything else, and so the Slytherins worked in silence for the rest of class. By the end, Draco had his scroll three-quarters of the way into the tinderbox. It wouldn’t be good enough for his N.E.W.T., but he blamed his poor wandwork on Pansy and Blaise and decided he would address it over the weekend at the library.

When the class was released, he and Pansy waited at their seats while Blaise and Daphne packed their things and left. They sat until the class had mostly trickled out, and then they stood to follow suit.

Draco noticed that Potter had lingered behind as well, and he watched him walk up to Professor Flitwick. “Er, Professor,” the spectacled boy said, “I was wondering if I could talk to you about one of our earlier assignments...”

As the Slytherins walked out of the doorway and turned down the corridor, Draco rolled his eyes. _Of course, the_ perfect _Harry Potter wants to do extra-curricular work_ , he thought.

Rather than go back up to their rooms, they both agreed to make an early start toward dinner, with a stop at the Owlery so Pansy could mail her parents. They took the stairs to the fourth-floor corridor and carried on down the hallway past the portrait entrance of the Quad Tower, a place where Pansy too often liked to stop and chat with the painting’s inhabitant. And every time they did, Draco had to stand there and listen to it all, since his Ministry-restricted wand didn’t work in the halls and so he was left beholden to Pansy to get him inside the tower.

Fortunately, Pansy was eager to write her letter today, so they rushed past the painting and turned left by Flitwick’s office. They came to the West Tower’s courtyard, which extended out from the main building and to the tower where the Owlery lay. There were plenty of students already out, and all of them gave the couple a wide berth, which only put Pansy even more on edge.

When they reached the Owlery, Draco forced Pansy to _Scourgify_ the windowsill so he could sit down. The tower was bitterly cold and damp thanks to the on-and-off storms they’d been having the latter half of the week, and the owls were looking especially restless because of it.

Draco gazed up at the birds and sighed—he sorely missed his own eagle owl, Asteria, who’d been taken back by his father during the summer after fourth-year, when the man was in one of his foul moods. Asteria had been kept in the manor after that, with Draco being forced to use the school owls and only able to see her when he came home for breaks. She was later killed by one of the Death Eaters for sport while they infested Malfoy Manor.

Just thinking of it, while he sat there on the icy windowsill and stared at the windswept stone walls, drove a nail through his heart. The owl’s eyes, once so bright and colored like lightly burnt amber, had been gone from him for so long. He could still remember how they looked when he found her dead on the grounds—cold and empty. He’d expected to join her not much longer after, but then the War was lost (or rather _won_ ), and he was still alive. It made him sick.

“Draco, do you have any requests?” Pansy asked as she wrote her letter, snapping him out of his memories. “Maybe some of those chocolates from the south that you like so much?”

“Sure. Send my regards.”

Their communications with Pansy’s parents were basically all they saw of the outside world since coming back to Hogwarts. Draco, of course, had no one to send letters to, with his parents under heavy probation and restricted from most forms of communication (they were allowed to have a monitored fire-call once a month, and the next approved date was still a week away on the first of October).

Approaching footsteps startled them both out of their momentary peace; Draco looked toward the Owlery entrance and saw two girls locked in conversation that were coming up the stairs.

“But really,” one of them said, “The next time I see Harper in class, I think I might hit him with a jelly-legs jinx that’ll last the whole week. He’s a complete idiot—" She stopped on the final step and made direct eye-contact with Draco.

It was Ginny Weasley, and behind her on the next step was the Lovegood girl. Draco hastily looked away. Pansy, upon seeing them, physically gasped. _Please_ , he thought, _for once just keep your mouth shut_.

The Weasley girl glared at both of them, clearly wondering what she wanted to do with the situation at hand. She turned to Lovegood and said, “Sorry Luna, let’s just come back after dinner.”

“That’s okay,” responded the other as they walked back down the stairs. “We can bring food for the owls. They always seem hungry when I’m around—they like to try and eat my jewelry.”

“That’s a great idea. I’m sure they’ll be longing for some good company in a while.”

After they disappeared down into the courtyard, Draco looked at Pansy; she was _shaking_. “Pans,” he started in disbelief, “They’re gone. Nothing happened. What are you so nervous about?”

She harshly sat down on the sill beside him. “How could anyone expect me to go on like this? We’re living with targets on our backs, always having to look over our shoulders and hide in the shadows like rats!

“I don’t know how long I can do this, Draco,” she ended with a watery sob. He had no idea yet how to handle her when she was in this state, and it made him very uncomfortable. Draco picked up her quill, which had fallen to the floor in her rush to the windowsill, and placed it back in her hand.

“Just finish your letter and we can go.”

They sat in silence while she wrote, and then she sealed the parchment in an envelope and tied it to one of her family’s owls. It flew off into the grey outside and disappeared behind a thick wall of clouds.

“Okay. Let’s go,” Pansy sniffled and began down the steps.

Draco had turned to follow, but a loud flutter of wings caught his attention from behind, so he looked back to the tower—in return, he saw a dark barn owl with a white face staring directly at him. Its eyes, he noticed, were bright amber.

The owl hooted once, softly, and then Draco left down the stairs. He caught up to Pansy halfway across the courtyard and walked side by side with her to the grand staircase.

When they arrived for dinner in the Great Hall, the tables were already almost full. It had taken them longer to send the letter than he thought. The hall itself was shadowed in grey due to the storm clouds high above, and even the candles floating overhead were dull and half-burned.

They came to the Slytherin table, where Blaise and Daphne were already seated with the seventh-years and chatting amongst the underclassmen with ease. Draco and Pansy sat down at the edge of the table, keeping their distance.

Even the food looked as gloomy as the weather; Draco served himself a sad-looking lump of mashed potatoes, peas, and chicken that had already started to turn cold. He lost his appetite immediately.

Daphne’s bubbling laughter rang out over it all. What she and the seventh-years thought was so funny, Draco didn’t bother to find out. He silently pushed the mushy peas around on his plate and tried to avoid sending Pansy into another panicked fit.

“You know what’s the saddest thing of all?” she asked him. Pansy was looking into her goblet and swirling the contents around. “You don’t even glance at the Gryffindor table anymore. You still sit on the same side of the table, but you don’t look. Remember when you’d narrate every little thing they did?”

“I did not narrate,” Draco frowned.

Pansy giggled to herself, almost as if she were drunk. She stuck her nose up in the air as if to imitate him, saying, “’Look at Scarhead! Was the oaf raised in the woods? He wouldn’t know how to properly hold a fork if it was glued into his hands.’”

“Shut up,” he tried to say as she fell into another round of uncontrollable giggles. The other Slytherins were starting to notice the commotion, and it made Draco nervous. The last thing he needed was for Pansy to humiliate him in front of the entire Great Hall.

“Pansy—” he started, but the rest fell to the background, as an ear-piercing _SCREECH_ erupted from somewhere high above them all.

Every student, and even the staff, immediately ducked at the horrible sound, clutching their ears in pain. Draco looked up and saw an owl that had flown in through one of the high windows. More students began to notice it too, and the hall became filled with confused murmurs. It was very unusual to see an owl at dinner—normally, they’d arrive by morning, since the owls had to travel far distances and needed time during the day to rest on their journey to Hogwarts.

The owl flew under the candles and then swooped down upon the Slytherin table, landing in-between Draco and Daphne. It was carrying not one letter but a full parcel bag. Daphne leaned over to inspect it, but the owl quickly snapped at her fingers in warning. It was a barn owl, and when Draco saw its eyes, he thought it was the very same owl he’d seen in the tower when they left for dinner.

Without any help, the owl bent its neck to untie the bag. It pulled off the twine and immediately a handful of letters fell out. The bird cried one last time before flapping its large wings and lifting off the table. It took the bag with it, clutched in its claws, and as the owl ascended, more letters fell from the bag until there was a massive pile of them spread across the Slytherin table in disarray.

They were all stunned. After the owl had disappeared beyond the high windows, Draco cautiously took one of the letters.

“Pansy, this one’s for you,” he said in disbelief.

“All of them are...” Daphne confirmed. The girl was sifting through the pile with a ghostly-white face. Every letter, possibly hundreds of them in total, was addressed ‘ _Pansy Parkinson_ ’ in delicate script.

“Don’t open them, Pans—” Draco tried to warn her, convinced that they would be Howlers or even worse—cursed with hexes. He helplessly watched as Pansy picked up one of the letters and began to open it.

She opened the letter and read it quickly; it must have been short. Her face went pale. Then she picked up another, and another.

“What is it?” Draco asked, but she wouldn’t say. He grabbed one out of the many and opened it himself.

The letter was plain and wrapped in a solid pink envelope. Draco read it silently to himself:

 _No one wants you here_.

It was short and to the point, and of course had no signature or other marker attached to the letter. Only the words. It struck Draco then that he’d heard that exact sentiment before.

He looked up and for the first time that year glanced over to the Gryffindor table. His eyes locked with Potter’s, and in return the boy merely raised a brow. He looked confused. Draco slid his gaze to the left and found the Weasley girl. She also met his eyes; really, the whole of the Great Hall was staring at Draco and Pansy, wondering what all the letters were about.

The girl was too hard to read, but Draco was certain: this was her doing. Who else would know about her interaction with Pansy besides Potter? They could have both been in on it, sure, though the bespectacled git truly did look confused about the situation.

Draco turned back to the letters and read some more: _Drop out!_ — _Go back home and leave us alone._ — _You should be the one turned over to the Death Eaters._ — _Traitor_.

Each was a different message, but of one message all the same: someone, or perhaps multiple people, wanted Pansy out of the school for good. There’d be no tolerance for her betrayal. The letters fluttered through the air as Pansy quickly stood and ran out of the Great Hall. Some people, even some of the Slytherins, laughed as she fled. Blaise was chuckling to himself.

Draco felt revolted. He grabbed as many letters as he could, including the first he’d opened, and stuffed them into his pockets. He stood and walked out the doors to the entrance hall.

When he found Pansy, she was cowering on the stone floor outside the Quad Tower entrance. Draco ran down the fourth-floor corridor as he spotted her. She was bent over, her breaths coming out in wretched sobs.

He placed a hand around her arm; she startled and violently pulled off of him before seeing his face. “ _Oh_ , Draco,” she cried.

He spent a good ten minutes just trying to get her calm enough to speak. When she could, she told him that she’d been ambushed on her way to the portrait.

“They surrounded me,” she said. “A whole group of them. I— They were saying the same things as the letters, Draco. That they were going to take me away and give me over to the Death Eaters who haven’t been captured. That they’ll— The things they’d _do_ to me.”

She had to pause to dry-heave. He had never seen her in a worse state. When she could, she continued, “I can’t stay here, Draco. I have to go home. They’re going to kill me. You must believe me! There were so many— I _saw_ them— Believe me...”

“I believe you, Pans,” Draco said with strain evident in his voice. “Can you tell me who they were? Gryffindors? What year were they?”

“I— I don’t know,” she choked. “They all had their hoods over their faces, and I couldn’t make out their houses. It’s _everyone_ , Draco. Everyone in this school. I knew they were all thinking this all along, and now they’ve said it straight to my face. They’ll kill me...”

“No one has to die this year, Pans. Get up,” Draco said. “We need to find the Headmistress and tell her what’s happened.”

Though Pansy protested, and was still heaving when she wasn’t sobbing, Draco managed to lift her into a standing position. She leaned against the wall and was breathing viciously. Then, she whispered, “They said _He_ would take me himself.”

There was only one ‘he’ they ever spoke of in such a tone. Draco shook his head. “He’s dead, Pans. It’s over.”

Harry had finally figured out where the Mirror of Erised was moved to. He’d spent many sleepless nights wandering the castle in vain until he realized there would be only one option left: to ask Flitwick about it.

He went to the professor after class, telling Ron and Hermione not to wait up for him, with a slightly-true story about how he wanted to examine the Mirror again for study material. Now, this story would have been much more believable coming from Hermione, but Harry was still terrified of telling anyone about his dreams or the problem of his non-reflection, so it was up to him to sell the lie.

So of course, Flitwick saw right through him. “It’s all right to have a fascination with the Mirror, Harry,” he said. “But it does not do well to dwell upon it, especially when you have work to do. What do you hope to find?”

Harry figured this could go one of three ways: he could tell the truth (not an option), try to push his cover story again, or go straight for guilt. Guilt it would be. “I promise I won’t cause any trouble, Professor. I’d like to just see my family again. It’s the only moment with them I ever get.”

The look on Flitwick’s face was clear: he was getting close. “I believe you, Mr. Potter, and I sympathize with your plight. Unfortunately, I cannot give students access to the Mirror unless it’s for purely academic purposes. The Headmistress has made herself clear on the subject.”

Harry frowned. Flitwick solemnly patted his arm in reassurance and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Potter. You can rest assured that the Mirror is in safe hands with our staff, and eventually I will bring it back near the end of term for closure on the assignment. You will get to see it again.”

As Harry walked out into the third-floor corridor, replaying the conversation through his head, he understood. While he’d thought to check Flitwick’s office on the fourth floor—and he’d checked it _multiple_ times over the week—what he hadn’t explored yet was the staffroom on the ground floor, and for good reason.

The staffroom during the day was easy enough to get into, assuming you had a good excuse or permission. At night, however, it would be nearly impossible. Not only would the room be locked and guarded by the stone gargoyles at its entrance, but Harry thought the room was probably also heavily warded. Even if he somehow managed to deal with the gargoyles and use _Alohomora_ , the wards would immediately sense him and raise alarm with the entire castle. Filch and McGonagall would be on him within minutes if not seconds.

With that churning around in his mind, Harry was sitting at the Gryffindor table for dinner and trying to eat his lumpy mashed potatoes. He had only briefly considered trying to go to the staffroom during the day, with a flimsy excuse, but even if he got in, he wouldn’t get very far with the Mirror. There would be too many eyes on him during the day. He needed to break into the room at night.

A horrible sound cut off all his thoughts; he looked and saw a large owl swoop down and land on the Slytherin table.

“What’s an owl doing here at this hour? And at the Slytherin table of all things?” Ron asked.

Bewildered, they watched the owl leave a pile of letters and fly away. Harry’s best guess was that the letters were—

“Hate mail,” Hermione finished for him. She sounded shocked. “Someone must have sent it to all the eighth-year Slytherins, going by where the owl landed. But so _many_ letters?”

“I’d have written some if I knew it was happening. Looks like a group effort... _Ow!_ ” Ron said. Hermione had smacked his arm.

Harry locked eyes with an angry-looking Malfoy. Whatever it was the git thought he was accusing him of, Harry was innocent. He had no interest in wasting his time with a petty prank like this; all he cared about was finding that damn Mirror.

Suddenly, Parkinson ran out of the hall, and it looked like she was near tears. Malfoy walked out after her. Harry listened as the Great Hall broke out into scattered laughter; beside him, Ron snickered along, as well as Dean and Seamus. Ginny, he noticed, had kept quiet. Their conversation on the Quidditch pitch must have convinced her to put the Slytherins out of mind.

After dessert was served and Harry had finished his treacle tart—which was really the only thing he’d eaten for dinner, since the rest looked like a sad mush—he stood up with the other Gryffindors and was ready to lie down on the Quad’s common room couch for an hour. Then he could think about doing homework.

Hundreds of untouched letters were still heavily strewn across the Slytherin table as they left the Great Hall. The eighth-year Gryffindors walked together in a bunch up the grand stairs to the fourth floor; Ginny and Luna followed along with them, needing to still go by the Owlery. Luna was holding a napkin full of leftover food for the school’s owls to munch on, though Harry wondered if the owls would be interested in cold peas and mashed potatoes.

They turned past the library’s restricted section. The fourth-floor was mostly empty, except for two Slytherins: Malfoy and Parkinson. They were coming from the opposite direction, and the girl looked puffy and red from crying.

When Harry and Malfoy locked eyes in the hallway, the effect was immediate. The Slytherin boy left Parkinson beside the wall and marched straight at Harry. He took an opened letter out of his pocket and waved it angrily in the air.

“Tell me if this was worth breaking our agreement over, Potter,” he demanded. He smacked the letter into Harry’s hands.

Immediately, Ron was at his side, and he had to hold him off before Malfoy was jumped. “Hold on,” Harry said hastily. “What is this?”

“As if you don’t know.”

But truly, he didn’t. Harry saw that the letter was addressed to Parkinson, and realized it must have been one of the many set upon the Slytherin table. He opened it and read aloud, “No one wants you here?” From the wall, he heard Parkinson sob. Harry was confused.

“What does this have to do with me, Malfoy?”

“That specific phrase doesn’t ring a bell?” The other boy was fuming.

“Er—No?”

“Fuck off, Malfoy,” Ron warned. “None of us had anything to do with your stinking letters.”

Malfoy threw the other letters—handfuls of them—at their feet and shouted, “We’re not going to just lie down and be walked over by the rest of you!” He pointed directly at Ginny. “She sent these, of that I’m sure, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the lot of you joined her to do it.”

“I did not,” Ginny shouted back, affronted. Ron pushed past Harry’s arm and tackled Malfoy to the floor.

“Just leave us alone!” Pansy screamed and ran down the hall toward the stairs before anyone could even think to stop her.

Harry and Neville quickly pulled Ron off of Malfoy before he could do any damage, but it was much too late to stop any of what would follow. Dean stepped in front of Ginny and said, “Even if she did send that letter, she wouldn’t have been wrong. Nobody does want you or your friends here.”

Harry was immediately irked that Dean was coming to _his_ girlfriend’s defense. “Dean, Seamus—did you send it?” he asked.

“No.” Dean was clearly offended. Seamus spat back, “Bite me. We haven’t done nothin’.”

“Ginny, you didn’t—” Harry said. He was certain she wouldn’t have done it, but if what Malfoy said about the letter was true...

“Of course not! He should know that himself. Luna and I ran into them in the Owlery, then we turned right around and went straight to dinner. If anyone sent those letters, I’d think it would have been Malfoy and Parkinson themselves.”

“Trying to make yourself look pathetic, you rat?” Ron shouted. Hermione was attempting to keep him steady. “You don’t need to send yourself hate mail to do that!”

On the wall, the portrait of Cynthia Buchanan was pleading for them all to stop fighting, but no one paid her any attention.

“I don’t have to take this,” Malfoy breathed. He was still on the floor and patting down the mussed vest and shirt under his robes.

Harry was absolutely tired of it all. He was tired of listening to Malfoy whine, tired of all the accusations and snide remarks, tired of his friends distrusting his judgment, and most of all he was fucking tired of trying to keep the peace when clearly no one else wanted to.

He drew his wand and pointed it at Malfoy’s chest.

“Harry, don’t!” Hermione said with worry. She was probably afraid that Malfoy would go running to McGonagall and have Harry sent on the next train to Grimmauld Place.

“Do it,” Malfoy dared him. The scene scarily reminded Harry of the _Sectumsempra_ incident, with Malfoy lain across the floor oozing his own wet blood.

Harry kept his wand aloft, though he began to feel slightly ill. He had to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “Just tell us if you did it, Malfoy.”

Malfoy stared. “Are you stupid? I haven’t done anything.”

“Maybe I am stupid,” Harry said, aggravated, “But at least I’m not a coward. Draw your wand and fight me.”

“Even if I could, I wouldn’t. I’m not a fool.”

Harry hated how Malfoy always seemed to get the upper hand on him, even when he was lying on the ground and had a wand drawn on him. Behind Harry, Dean and Seamus were egging him on, suggesting different ways to hex the Slytherin. It made him feel like he was a child.

He was about to pocket his wand and go up to his room to lie down when a clear voice boomed at them from behind:

“That is enough!” Headmistress McGonagall said.


	7. Escape from Hogwarts

The cloudless sky had turned a deep indigo once the sun dropped beyond the horizon of Hogsmeade. Harry was looking out of the western window in the Headmaster’s Tower and trying to count the sparsely visible stars that hung high above the Quidditch pitch.

The Headmistress was currently in her office, beyond the locked double doors by which Harry stood. She was in the process of interrogating the whole lot of them—first she’d taken on the bystanders, and now she was grilling Ginny and Parkinson together. Ron, Hermione, and the others were gone, released and returned to their dormitories for what felt like ages ago.

Harry had already been waiting for over an hour since he first arrived to the tower, after following McGonagall there in a solemn single-file line. By the time he’d reached the griffin statue, he’d accepted his fate of expulsion from the school. He only regretted that he wouldn’t get to uncover the Mirror of Erised’s mystery.

He quickly realized that counting the stars was a useless endeavor, even if it did pass some time. As he squinted in search of the lights of Hogsmeade far beyond the pitch, Harry wondered if he could get Kreacher to bring the Mirror to him before they left.

 _Well, at least Kreacher will be glad to go home_ , he thought in defeat. Going back to Grimmauld Place was exactly what Harry had been avoiding when he came back to Hogwarts, but now it seemed he had no choice but to return and begin picking up all the pieces. And many pieces there would be, strewn all about the mess that made up the residence.

The double doors opened. Harry drew back from the window and turned around; Malfoy was on the opposite side, by the eastern window, and looking glum. Out of the doors, Parkinson exited, followed by Ginny. Just as the others had left, neither of them paid the boys any attention and walked down the spiral stairs without saying a word or turning a head. Harry supposed the Headmistress had instructed them to not hint anything to himself or to Malfoy about what was to come.

“You may come in.” The voice of McGonagall carried past the doorway and into the space where Harry and Malfoy were waiting. After they both stepped into the office, the doors behind them closed softly.

The office interior hadn’t changed much—the walls were covered floor to ceiling with bookshelves, and on each side of the room was a winding stair that led to the loft above the Headmaster’s desk.

McGonagall was sitting grimly behind her desk, her hands clasped together and set upon the wooden top. “Sit down,” she instructed. Both Harry and Malfoy had been awkwardly standing behind the plush chairs.

Harry sat and placed his hands in his lap. He had to clutch his knee to stop his leg from involuntarily bouncing. The Headmistress had no tea or biscuits to offer them—only a cold and demanding expression.

“Mr. Malfoy, you may begin.”

For what felt like a lifetime, Malfoy told his side of the events, starting with Ginny and Parkinson’s exchange in the Quad Tower. Harry’s heart stopped. He hadn’t thought about how that initial conversation could land Ginny in hot water, too, especially since she had gone into the eighth-year’s tower. He began to think of ways to bribe McGonagall from expelling her. If worse came to worse, he could always pull the ‘Savior’ card.

Malfoy then explained how he had _apologized_ to Harry for Parkinson’s behavior and that they had mutually come to an agreement to stop engaging each other. He drawled on about how the Slytherins were struggling to fit in (Harry nearly rolled his eyes) and that it was heavily affecting Parkinson’s performance in school. Apparently, the girl was prone to frequent anxiety and crying, convinced that everyone was out to get her. And after the letter prank, it seemed that her fears had foundation.

The Slytherin wrapped it up with the confrontation and Harry’s wand being drawn. McGonagall, who had so far only looked stoically into Malfoy’s eyes throughout the story, unclasped her hands and held out one of them toward the boy.

“Mr. Malfoy, I will need to inspect your wand,” she said.

Harry was confused. “Professor, he didn’t draw his wand,” he said to her.

With her other hand, McGonagall hushed him. “In order for Mr. Malfoy to attend his eighth year, both he and I have committed to following the Ministry’s procedures. Please remain silent until I get to you, Mr. Potter.”

After Malfoy passed his wand, the Headmistress cast a reverse spell on it. The ghostly image of a tinderbox floated up to the ceiling. “An extension charm for Professor Flitwick’s class. Is that correct?”

Malfoy nodded. McGonagall returned his wand and continued, “Very well. Mr. Potter, please begin.”

Harry corroborated Malfoy’s account of Ginny and Parkinson’s confrontation, though he made sure to emphasize that Parkinson had started it, and he admitted that he couldn’t remember the exact words either had said. He also pointed out that he was the one who chose to bring Ginny to the tower (he also lied and said he specifically invited her, rather than the other way around), and so if anyone was to be punished for her being there, it should be him alone.

He agreed with Malfoy that they had arrived at something like a truce, and then told of how he explained it to Ginny, who seemed open to the idea. When he got to the events at the Great Hall, he made sure to mention that Ginny did not look at all amused by the prank.

“And actually, if you don’t mind me pointing out, Professor,” Harry continued, “Malfoy said a group of students harassed Parkinson in the fourth-floor corridor after she left the Great Hall. At that time, all of us, including Ginny, were still eating at the Gryffindor table.”

McGonagall broke her silence and asked, “Do you mean to accuse Mr. Malfoy and Miss Parkinson of attacking themselves?”

“No. What I meant is that whoever those students were are most likely the same ones who sent the letters. They wouldn’t have been at dinner, so they’d have had time to take the bag up to the Owlery and send them. And all of us, Malfoy and Parkinson included, were at dinner.”

He then ended by telling of the confrontation outside of the Quad’s entrance, and admitted with some shame that he drew his wand on Malfoy, though he had no intention of actually using a spell.

“I accept full consequence of my actions,” he finished. “I can be packed by tonight.”

McGonagall’s gaze pierced through him. “What you did this evening was very foolish,” she began. “And you can be certain that if I find the ones responsible for the attack on Miss Parkinson, they will be on the next train home. But fortunately for you, and Mr. Malfoy, and the rest of your friends, none of you are leaving the castle.”

Harry was shocked. He thought he misheard her. “Professor, you’re not expelling anyone?”

“Don’t push it, Mr. Potter,” she replied. “You’re all very fortunate that the only underclassman witnesses were Miss Lovegood and Weasley. You cannot forget that the eighth-years are meant to be leading examples for the rest of the school.”

Of course, she hadn’t exactly checked with any of them first before choosing them all as the sacrificial lamb to the school. Unity indeed.

The Headmistress continued, “Now, there is still the matter of punishment.”

Harry’s leg began to shake again. In a brief few moments of insanity, he had thought he’d gotten off without needing to do anything about it. McGonagall saw to squash that idea immediately.

“I could have you polishing trophies or take away your privileges to access the Quidditch pitch and brooms, or I could contact the Ministry and request their standard for punishment—”

Malfoy’s eyes widened with fear at the sentiment.

“But none of those things would do any of us any good, would they?” the Headmistress said. “No, a student’s punishment should always fit its crime, and I believe the crime here has been poor judgment, backed by years of stubborn hatred. Do you disagree?”

“Whatever it is, Professor, it’s definitely stubborn,” Harry said. Beside him, Malfoy remained silent, and when the Headmistress asked if he had anything to say, he shook his head.

“Very well,” she continued. “Starting this Sunday, and continuing through to the end of October, you will both be helping the groundskeeper.”

Harry imagined that Malfoy was inwardly groaning at this prospect.

“I think you’ll find this task takes a heavy dose of teamwork in order to succeed. You will meet Hagrid at the castle’s northern doors at precisely eight o’clock on Sunday, where he will give you more detailed instruction. If you have no questions, you may leave.”

“I wish my punishment was working with Hagrid,” Ron balked after hearing Harry’s full recount of his meeting in the Headmistress’ office. “Though at least I’m not stuck with Malfoy. I’ve got to polish those bloody trophies every night for two weeks.”

They were sitting by the fire in the common room; Hermione was half-listening as she was reviewing the next week’s class materials, and Neville was playing Gobstones against Hannah at the coffee table. Neville’s face was beginning to turn a very lustrous purple hue; the game, which normally spat smelly liquid at whoever lost points, was instead charmed to hit them with magical paint. They found it much more fun, and significantly less smelly. Hannah’s face was only lightly dusted with a pastel blue.

After leaving the Headmaster’s Tower, Malfoy had awkwardly trailed behind Harry the whole way to their common room. While Harry desperately wanted to know what happened during Ginny’s interrogation, he couldn’t get into the Gryffindor tower, and he certainly wasn’t going to track down Parkinson and ask her about it.

And so, he was sitting on the couch with Ron and wondering what in the world Hagrid could have in store for him on Sunday. The last time he’d shared a detention with him and Malfoy, it hadn’t exactly gone over well—and there was no chance he was going back into the Forbidden Forest anytime soon. He only hoped it wouldn’t involve blast-ended skrewts.

The telltale squirt of a gobstone broke his focus. “Neville, you poor thing...” Hannah said, covering her mouth with her hands in pity. “Do you want to end the game here? I don’t want your skin to be permanently purple.”

“Yeah,” Neville said, paint sputtering from his lips. “Maybe next time we should stick with chess.”

Following another two hours of lounging around the common room—in which each of them tried unsuccessfully to rid Neville’s face of his new color—the fire dwindled to a crackling smolder and Ron and Hermione had already gone off to bed.

“Well, sorry, Neville,” Harry said after one more failed attempt to purge the paint. “I’d get up early tomorrow if I were you. Get to Pomfrey before everyone sees you in the Great Hall.”

“Right. Thanks anyway, Harry.” Neville pushed himself off the floor and followed him to the boys’ stairs. “Good luck with your detention on Sunday.”

“Thanks. I think I’ll need it.”

Harry shut and locked the door behind him as he came into his suite. On the bedside table, his paper birds were seeming to calm themselves at last—for weeks after he fought with Ginny, they had been incessant in their noise and fluttering. He’d grown used to depending on a cocktail of silencing charms, ear mufflers, and even potions to help him fall asleep. Ironically, the haphazardness of his waking life and struggle with dozing off meant that he’d mostly been having undisturbed, dreamless sleep.

Harry hoped that now he could return to restful slumbers.

~~~

 _Hoo—Hoo—Hoot._ The owl’s soft chant floated on a breeze from far in the distance down to where Harry stood. His shoes were crunching gravel and dirt underfoot, and though he felt some warmth as if it were radiating off the ground, the air itself was cool and crisp.

All around him, the world was blue like night; Harry looked into the sky, but couldn’t find where the moon had hidden. Behind him was an endless rolling moor into black nothingness, and the winding gravel path on which he stood led ahead of him into a thicket of trees.

He walked forward. Crunching turned to soft padding as he was led off the gravel and onto the dirt of the forest. When he slipped through the first batch of trees, he saw something bright lying in a small clearing. The glow was so piercing that it revealed the rolling fog on the ground, making it appear like white smoke. As he got closer, pushing his legs through the thick fog, he saw that the light was a squirming and organic—it was a cluster of glowbugs. They were bright white, and through the jelly-like membranes of the creatures, Harry saw their silky heads wriggling like luminescent antennae inside.

His foot pressed into the dirt, and the sound startled the glowbugs into scattered flight. They escaped in all directions, briefly illuminating the many avenues between the trees and brush encircling him. One flew close past his head, kissing his ear with a high-pitched hum.

Even after the last glowbug had gone, there was still light. Harry bent down and picked up a lantern off the forest floor. The lantern was warm and cast a weak yellow glow, but it was enough to lead him through the woods ahead.

The air was growing thicker. “Hagrid!” Harry feebly shouted; the word died on his lips as the air refused to carry it. He noticed then that the ambient sounds of the forest—the owl’s hoots, the chirping of insects, even the breeze—had dropped off completely. Even the snapping of twigs underfoot didn’t carry.

Harry had wandered into a particularly troublesome thicket. Every turn led to a wall of bark and brush. He was pushing himself sideways between two trees and hanging his lantern on a branch when he spotted what appeared to be a clearing only a few yards ahead. He slipped through and fell onto the floor. After dusting himself free of dirt and leaves, he retrieved the lantern and pushed forward.

“Malfoy?” he tried again, though his voice was weaker, and he might not have spoken at all. The brush he waded through was sticking to his robes, ripping holes into the practically brand-new fabric, and his skin was deeply scratched and bleeding. He nearly landed on the dirt as he came into the clearing, but at last he had made it. The area was circular and spacious, and surrounded by a wall of trees so thick he might never make it through.

Harry sat his lantern down as he spotted a bright blue glow rising off the ground at the clearing’s edge. As he drew closer, he discovered that the anomaly was a pool of water dug into the earth. The water was clear and intensely luminescent, turning Harry’s face a flickering movement of blues and greens as he kneeled before the pool. The closer he looked, he noticed the pool went much deeper than he’d expected. It appeared to lead into an underwater cave.

The water’s surface was as still as glass. Harry was kneeling at its lip and leaning his whole upper body over it, and he hardly dared to breathe in fear of disturbing the pool. His eyes slowly adjusted to the glow and revealed to him a strange aberration: the color, which had at first appeared completely solid, had changed and looked as if there were long lines drawn along the surface. In fact, it almost looked like—

“A frame,” he whispered. His breath caught the surface and created a small ripple. With some hesitation, Harry held his hand to the pool’s surface and swiped it across the water’s filmy top layer. Waves crested out from his hand and shook the lines until they had blended into the ripples. As he had come to suspect, what he’d seen was a reflection.

Harry waited for the water to still. He again held his hand above the water but didn’t touch it; instead, he waved his hand in the air. There was no reflection. Harry drew back his hand and breathed—his breath was hot and came out like a white smoke in the cooling air.

The back of his neck was prickling. Ever so slowly, Harry turned and lifted his head. The trees behind him were barely visible against the blackness. He lifted his chin further and further, the creaking of his neck audible in his ears as he did, until he was looking up into the treetops far above him.

Hung there, barely stable in its entrapment by the tree limbs, was the Mirror of Erised.

A twig snapped.

Harry startled awake. There was sweat beading upon his brow, and beside him the birds were tweeting in their cage. It was still dark outside through the window; he checked the time with a _Tempus_ spell and found that it was nearing four in the morning on Sunday.

Ripping off his covers, he ran barefoot down the steps to the shower room on the first floor of the boys’ dorms. He went straight to the nearest sink and doused his head in a stream of cold water.

Icy droplets were racing off his drenched hair and down his back as he tightly gripped the sides of the sink. “Kreacher—” he said hoarsely.

The loud _CRACK_ nearly knocked him to the floor, but his white-knuckled grip on the sink kept him upright. Kreacher bowed before him. If the house-elf wondered why Harry had called upon him in a bathroom, he said nothing about it.

Harry told him, “I need you to do me a favor. I want you to scope out the staffroom on the ground floor, but you can’t be detected when you do it. Check for wards and any other security on the doors. Can you do that without tripping the sensors?”

“Kreacher can do anything if Master desires it,” he croaked.

“Perfect. Now remember, you need to do this quietly. Go down there now and I’ll meet you in the hall outside the doors in a few minutes. Oh, and also—when you’re inside, I want you to look around and see if there’s a big, tall mirror in there. It might be covered with a sheet.”

Kreacher bowed again and disappeared with a snap. Harry ran back up the stairs, changed into clothes more befitting of sneaking around the castle, grabbed his cloak and map and ran back down and into the common room.

Thankfully since it was a Sunday morning, everyone would remain asleep for a few more hours. On the map, Filch was revealed to be on the fifth floor, unmoving. He’d probably found a windowsill to snooze on. As Harry ran down the corridor and then the grand staircase, wrapped in his invisibility cloak, he recognized how completely foolhardy he was for doing this the same day as his detention was set to begin. He just really didn’t _care_.

As he promised, Harry waited around the corner from the staffroom entrance. He quickly peered around the wall and saw with relief that both stone gargoyles were fast asleep and snoozing. Hopefully Kreacher’s presence wouldn’t wake them up. Harry’s breath hitched. _Kreacher_ , he thought.

Quickly, he cast a wall of silencing charms around him. As if on command, the house-elf appeared beside him with the usual ear-piercing crack. Harry looked at the gargoyles again—still asleep. He breathed a sigh of relief.

“Master,” Kreacher bowed. “Kreacher has news. There are three wards set on the doors. One will detect the unlocking spell of wizards, the second detects the presence of any human-like being entering the room, and the third detects non-human beings, though it does not work on creatures such as house-elves.”

 _That one’s for Peeves_ , Harry thought. “What happens if the ward goes off?”

“The Headmistress will be notified.”

“And can you remove the wards? How would I slip past them?”

“That Kreacher does not know, Master. Even if Kreacher apparated you into the room, the second ward would be triggered. Kreacher does have good news, though. Master’s mirror is in the room, covered with a sheet as Master said.”

Once again, he’d come to a roadblock, but at least he knew the mirror was inside. “Well, thanks for the information. Bake yourself something nice to eat. What did your Master Regulus like?”

“Master loved the Mistress’ homemade pudding.”

“Brilliant. Make yourself a pudding, Kreacher. You’ve earned it. But, er, get some sleep first.”

“Yes, Master,” the elf said in his scratchy voice. With a snap of his fingers, he was gone again.

For half an hour, Harry paced back and forth from under his cloak, thinking of ways he might get past the wards. Everything came up short. When he checked the time and found that it was five o’clock, Harry accepted defeat and retreated to his room.

~~~

“’Ello, Harry,” boomed Hagrid’s voice. The half-giant had just stepped through the northern doors and into the corridor where Harry and Malfoy were waiting for their detention to start. It had turned dark outside, and a chilling breeze swept past Harry’s front as the doors shut. Inside, the torches along the corridor walls were burning bright and caught them all in a warm orange light.

“Hey, Hagrid,” Harry returned. The groundskeeper had also nervously acknowledged Malfoy, who merely gave a short nod in response.

Hagrid clasped his giant hands together and rubbed them with anticipation. “Are yeh ready to see wha’ I’ve got for ya? Let’s move along an’ I’ll explain as we go.”

They silently followed him out onto the cold grounds. Harry suddenly wished he’d brought a scarf and gloves along with him. He drew his robes closer and put up his hood.

“Now what yeh’ll be doin’,” Hagrid began, “Is runnin’ a bit of interference for me. You see, I’ve got myself tied up in knots right now what wi’ both teaching and my normal groundskeeping responsibilities.

“Lately, I’ve been running into some real issues. Somethin’s been scaring my animals and sendin’ ‘em out of their stables at night. I’ve been havin’ ta get up at the crack o’ dawn each morning just to herd them all back. Need ‘em for the classes, of course, but I also can’t very well have any of ‘em chasing students, can I?”

Malfoy attempted to cover his derisive snort with a faux cough. Hagrid paid no attention.

Harry asked, “So, you said something’s attacking them?”

“No, there hasn’t been an attack yet, thank heavens. They’re simply spooked. By what, I ain’t the foggiest clue. That’s why I need you two.”

“Wait a moment,” Malfoy said and stopped dead in his tracks. “We’re going to be out here guarding your creatures? In the cold? When there’s a monster prowling the grounds?” He looked and sounded absolutely scandalized.

“I didn’ say it was a monster, Malfoy.”

“No, but you said you don’t know _what_ it was. What if it’s a werewolf?”

“Well, I suppose it could be...” Hagrid mused. This did not fill either boy with confidence. As much as Harry appreciated his half-giant friend, he could still admit most of Hagrid’s exploits only put the students closer to peril.

Hagrid continued, “If that’s the case, just be careful on the full moon. I think that’s still a good couple weeks away. Now, no more dawdlin’, let’s get to the stables.”

Malfoy reluctantly followed them down the hill, past Hagrid’s hut and to the stables, which stood just beyond the reaches of the Forbidden Forest. The closer they got, the colder and darker it became, until the only light available was emitting from a couple old lanterns hung against the stable’s front.

Harry drew his wand and cast _Lumos_. Hagrid then took down the two lanterns, keeping one to himself and handing the other to Malfoy. The fearful Slytherin looked grateful just to have something to hold against the encroaching night.

“They’re all still inside,” Hagrid noticed happily. “Come take a peek.” With his hand, he waved them forward. Malfoy hung toward the back and clutched his lantern ever closer.

Harry leaned over the stalls with his wand, but the light wasn’t very good. “What are they, Hagrid?” he asked.

The half-giant pointed with his large hand. “Those on the left are diricawl. You may know them as ‘dodo’ birds. They’re not very bright, but they can apparate anywhere they want. It makes ‘em bloody hard to catch.”

“Great,” Malfoy mumbled under his breath.

“Now the ones on the right,” Hagrid said, “Are sure to take yer interest. I brought those in for the sixth and seventh-year classes. They’re called firedrakes. Ever heard of ‘em?”

Harry shook his head.

“Aren’t they like dragons?” Malfoy asked. His eyes were impossibly wide.

“Yes and no. They look about like a miniature dragon, an’ they can fly like one, but they can’t breathe fire. Luckily for us. Their tails do burn, though, so watch out for tha’.”

After trying to look into the stables once more, Harry gave up. It was much too dark to see anything, which worried him—were all their detentions going to be at this time? Hagrid drew both of them away from the stables to not disturb the animals.

“Have any of the firedrakes gotten loose before, Hagrid?” Harry asked once they had settled near the clearing where the Care of Magical Creatures class took place during the day.

“Oh, yes, all of ‘em have gotten out at one point or another, I’m afraid. That’s why I’m needin’ your help so badly.”

“Shouldn’t someone more professional than us be doing this?” Malfoy whined. “What about Professor Grubbly-Plank?”

Hagrid frowned. “Well, Ms. Grubbly-Plank is off at another school this year. It’s just the three of us. But don’t be expectin’ much of my help. The whole reason Professor McGonagall approved this was to get you two workin’ together.”

“So, Hagrid, what exactly are we going to be doing?” Harry asked.

“Right.” From within his inner coat pocket, Hagrid withdrew two rolled parchments and handed them each one. “These are your schedules—don’t lose ‘em. Basically, yeh’ll be out here every day ‘xcept for Fridays and Saturdays. The animals always seem to get loose around ten o’clock, so yeh’ll be stationed out here from nine to eleven-thirty every night.”

“Nine to eleven-thirty?” Malfoy was shrill. “And how are we expected to get any sleep or finish our homework?”

Admittedly, Harry was worried about the same thing. He just didn’t want to say he agreed with Malfoy on something.

“If yeh have any problems, yeh’ll have to take it up with the Headmistress. She signed off on it.” Hagrid rubbed his hands together once more. “Now, yeh’ve got about half an hour before you need to start working, so let’s make sure you’re prepared.”

With not much time to spare, Hagrid showed them the basics of what their rounds would look like. He had fashioned them a shoddy outpost a little ways away from the stables, where they would be allowed to sit and take some spare shelter from the night air. Fortunately, the outpost was covered and seemed to provide some warmth. Their main job would be posting up as a lookout for whatever was bugging the animals, and if the animals escaped their stables, Harry and Malfoy would have to run after them and return them to the shelter before eleven-thirty.

Just a tick before nine, Hagrid was setting down their parting gift: two large, steaming mugs of tea, which were charmed to stay warm in the cold air. He placed them on a shaky wooden table at their outpost and wished them good luck on their first night.

They watched for a long while as Hagrid disappeared to his hut. Malfoy then turned immediately to Harry and said, “This is utter bollocks.”

Harry bit his tongue. _Don’t take any bait_. “Let’s just hope we find whatever it is, and soon. Maybe it’s a stray flobberworm.”

Malfoy scoffed. “As if it could be so ridiculously easy. They don’t make anything easy at this damned school.”

Harry picked up his tea and tested it—it tasted of honey and cream, with a dash of cinnamon. He began to drink it down. The tea warmed his insides and gave him a bit of confidence. Maybe the first night wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Malfoy, on the other hand, had not touched his tea. He looked angry and exhausted.

“Hey, try the tea,” Harry suggested. “It’s good. Really.”

In response, Malfoy only put his hand around the mug, but did not drink it. He glared back at Harry.

“And, well,” Harry said, “I guess it’s really because of me that we’re in detention, so... uh—” The words, ‘ _I’m sorry_ ,’ refused to bless his lips. He couldn’t do that to his dignity, no matter how much he’d fucked up. This was Malfoy.

“Just drink the bloody tea, Malfoy,” he finished. And so, to his shock and amusement, Malfoy actually drank the tea.

Harry checked the time with a _Tempus_ spell. It was fifteen minutes past ten o’clock, and so far, nothing had been seen or heard. Both he and Malfoy were still seated at the outpost, their tea long gone. Even with the shelter, they were both chilled to the bone. Malfoy seemed to be taking it the worst, and had wrapped himself nearly into a ball with his robes. Harry had cast another warming charm on the outpost only ten minutes prior, but the spell was getting weaker as the night progressed, and was now failing them completely.

He was about to try casting another charm when— _Snap_. The sound of a twig breaking was loud in the night’s silence and startled them both badly. Harry looked at Malfoy, whose face had turned ghostly pale and was breathing erratically. The sound had come from behind them.

“Did you hear that?” Harry asked in a whisper. Malfoy nodded viciously, not daring to speak. Merlin, what if it _was_ a werewolf?

Harry started, “Okay, let’s—” Suddenly, with a loud _woosh_ , the stable doors blew open. The animals started to screech and cry, and with no warning they began to run off, though it was difficult for Harry to see what was going on.

It wasn’t until one of the firedrakes flew right in front of them, momentarily illuminating their faces with its fiery tail, that Harry realized the creatures had escaped.

“Shit,” he said, and then yelled, “Malfoy, let’s go!” Immediately as Harry got out of his seat, a dodo apparated right in front of him, tripping him. He landed in a flurry on the ground. Quickly, Harry pulled himself up and grabbed the large bird with both arms.

“Malfoy, run and grab them before they all get into the forest!” The other boy had been shocked and frozen in his seat. At Harry’s shout, he stood and ran off toward the stable, the lantern swinging wildly in his hand.

 _Pop_. The dodo he’d been holding disapparated, leaving his arms clutching nothing but air. “Fuck!” Harry said, and he would be saying it often that night.

Hagrid had warned them that the dodos could only be wrangled back to their stable if they were calm, but Harry had no idea how he would even calm himself in this state. The night left them completely stumbling in vain—the only saving grace was that the firedrakes were easy enough to spot, thanks to their tails. However, they could still fly, and Hagrid hadn’t thought to bring them a broom.

Harry was standing in the clearing near the outpost, wildly looking around. Against the black night, the firedrakes looked like sparklers in the distance. Malfoy came running toward him.

“I haven’t got a single one yet. You?” he asked, out of breath.

“No.” Harry debated what to do. “Maybe we should get the firedrakes first. Let’s go across to the Quidditch pitch and get some brooms from the shed. Then we can use _Immobulus_ to catch them.”

“There’s only one problem with that,” Malfoy responded. “I can’t use my wand outside of class.”

“Then you can chase the dodos.”

“It’s pointless!” He sounded frustrated. “They’ll just keep disapparating. You cast the charm on the firedrakes, I’ll use the broom to catch them.”

“Fine.” Harry was angry at being ordered around, but they only had about an hour left to collect the creatures, so he didn’t push it.

Together, he and Malfoy half-ran to the broom shed across the grounds. Harry unlocked it with a spell and then tossed a broom over to the Slytherin. “Ready?” he asked.

The moon was offering them very little light, so Malfoy had to keep his lantern on the broom handle, but even that didn’t do much to help. They found one of the firedrakes weaving around the Quidditch pitch stands, giving itself away when its tail hit one of the awnings, causing it to smoke.

Harry ran across the pitch and began to cast the freezing charm; he missed, again and again. The firedrake was slender and could easily fly circles around them both. Malfoy was on the broom and trying to chase it. “Dammit, Potter, aim your wand!”

“I’m trying!” Harry yelled back. He cast the charm again and only narrowly missed. The firedrake sprung backwards, directly into Malfoy; its tail hit his robes and started a fire. Frantically, Malfoy patted the flames out, with terror clear on his face even in the dark.

“ _Immobulus!_ ” The spell finally found its mark—the firedrake froze, curled into an S-like shape, and hung in mid-air.

Malfoy approached it, unsure of how to grab the thing. He didn’t exactly look pleased about having to touch it.

“The spell won’t last long,” Harry warned him.

“What do I do with it?”

“Just take it back to the stable and use that spe— Oh, right. I’ll run and meet you at the stables. We’ll have to lock it back in.”

Harry jogged back across the grounds. With Malfoy’s help to hold down the miniature dragon, which was slowly starting to wake and wriggle in his hands, Harry set the charms on the stable that Hagrid had showed them. Finally, they had one creature safely back inside.

That only left about... Fuck, he didn’t even know how many there were. For the rest of the night, they decided to work in the same teamly fashion, since Malfoy was mostly useless without his wand. Harry was certain that McGonagall was going to sleep with a smile on her face that night, having achieved her dream of forcing them to work together.

“Potter— Over here,” Malfoy said.

It was already ten minutes past their end time, but they had only returned a total of three firedrakes to the stables (and no dodos), and Harry didn’t want the first night of detention to be a complete failure. They were working their way back near the Quidditch pitch, keeping their eyes peeled for the telltale sparks of a firedrake’s tail. Malfoy was further away, standing near the lake’s shallow edge. The Slytherin was trying his hardest to hold in a laugh.

Harry came to a stop beside him and followed Malfoy’s pointed finger to the waterline. A few yards out into the lake, one of the dodos was bobbing on the surface. Its thick body made for an easy floatation device, and its head was fully out of the water, looking around in confusion.

“For Godric’s sake... Lend me the broom, will you?” Malfoy passed it to him. They were both already a little loose from the lack of sleep, and now this stupid bird was going to send Harry off the edge into giddiness.

He flew out and scooped the dodo into his lap. The thing was soaking his front and his arm, which he had to hold the bird with so it didn’t slip off the broom handle. “Okay... gently now,” he whispered, half to the bird and half to himself.

Together, he and the dodo glided above the lake and back to the grounds. Harry subtly tilted his head toward the direction of the stables as he passed Malfoy and hoped he got the hint. As quietly as he could, Harry flew to the shelter and placed the dodo in its pen. He backed away slowly, shut the door, and cast the appropriate charms.

He waited until he was out of earshot to cheer. Malfoy came jogging up to him. “Did you get it inside?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Fucking finally. Now how about the rest?”

By midnight, they had only captured one more firedrake. The dodos were infuriating—every time they got their hands on one, the bird would immediately _Pop!_ off to somewhere else, usually halfway across the grounds. If any of the creatures had escaped into the forest, they didn’t go looking for them. The dodos would have to fend for themselves.

They were both exhausted, and so, when Malfoy confidently spat, “Fuck this. If Hagrid thinks the sixth-years need to see a dodo bird so badly, he can fetch the devils himself,” Harry had no issue with the decision.

“Agreed,” he said.

After returning the school broom to its shed, they stumbled together up the hill to the castle. Most of the windows’ lights had gone out, except for a spare few among the dormitory towers.

“You should— Should’ve seen your face— Potter,” Malfoy said, having to catch his breath in-between the words.

“When?”

The Slytherin was trying to hold back his laughter, though it was becoming hard work. “When you had that dodo in your arms. I wish I’d taken a picture of it.”

Harry snorted. “Well, how about you when that firedrake caught your robes on fire? That was pretty much priceless.”

“You weren’t the one with your robes on fire.”

~~~

By the end of Wednesday night, Harry had no idea how he would survive until the end of October. Hagrid had already berated them for leaving Sunday night unfinished, though technically they were both within their rights to do so once the clock hit eleven-thirty. According to the groundskeeper, there were seven firedrakes and twelve dodo birds in total, meaning that on Sunday they had caught much less than half of the animals altogether. On Monday and Tuesday, they hadn’t had much better luck.

The other, more pressing issue was that they were no closer to understanding what was startling the animals _or_ opening their pens. Each time it happened, Harry and Malfoy were caught completely off guard, and no amount of _Lumos_ or lanterns revealed anything about the instigator.

It was ten minutes past midnight. Harry shut the stable door and locked it with Hagrid’s list of charms. This time, their fourth consecutive night in a row, they’d caught all but one of the firedrakes, and three dodos. Hagrid had given them a list of ways to calm the birds down, but none were working as they’d hoped. Whatever it was that was spooking them was persistent.

“We need to start thinking of ways to catch this thing... like setting traps,” Harry mused. “Or at least we need a better way to see. Have you got any ideas?”

“You could try setting wards,” Malfoy said. “Do you know how?”

“Er—I’ve done a few protective spells like that, but I’m not an expert. I’ll have to ask Hermione about it.”

Malfoy paused, looking lost in thought. He said, “Maybe you and Granger can set them up tomorrow. Actually, I wanted to ask you something about tomorrow.”

“Oh?” Harry asked. They began walking up the hill to the castle doors. The ground was turning cold and crunched as they walked.

“It’s going to be the first of October. I’m supposed to have a fire-call with my parents from eight-thirty to nine-thirty. Do you think you could cover for me the first half-hour?”

“Well, it’s not like anything happens then anyway, but what about McGonagall?”

“I was planning to talk to her about it in the morning. If, for instance, I told her that someone else agreed to help you—say, Granger—while I’m gone, she might be more willing to let me take the call. How likely do you think it’d be to get her to agree to it?”

“Oh, easy. I just won’t tell her she’s covering for you.”

“I suppose you’re not as stupid as you look.”

“And maybe you won’t be such a git to me and my friends if we help you. Sound like a deal?”

“Fine.”

That night, after they left to their separate rooms and Harry had lain down on his bed, he felt more relaxed than he had in weeks. For three days, he hadn’t even thought about the Mirror. He fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.


	8. The Wrong Sort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long time ago, two lifelong friends were ripped apart by a single belief. Perhaps this time, the fallout of that fracture could be what finally heals a lifelong animosity.

It took more than a few days since the Headmistress’ interrogation, but finally on Thursday after lunch, Harry cornered Ginny on the issue. She’d been avoiding talking about it at every turn with him, no matter how much he pressed; apparently, she was still sour with him, but after a full week of deflecting, she caved.

They both had a free period directly after lunch. After a long walk together up the grand staircase, Ginny led him to a secluded window ledge in the seventh-floor corridor. The window was broad with an arched top, sunk into the smooth stone, and its ledge held enough space for both of them. They sat there, legs dangling and caught in the shafts of white light streaming through the glass.

Outside, the day was clear and had warmed up considerably compared to the earlier part of the week. Harry peered through the glass and saw the West Tower away in the distance, dusted in a foggy pale blue.

“So, how has Operation: Dodo been progressing?” Ginny asked him.

Harry turned, pressing his head against the window glass, and looked her in the eyes. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“That’s what I’m calling it, because those dodos are all you talk about.”

“Because they’re bloody impossible to catch. You should try it.”

“I bet I could get more of them than you,” she said, wriggling her nose.

“I’d bet you could, too. Now, tell me what in the world McGonagall has you doing.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Fine, if you _really_ must know... I had to polish the school’s brooms and trim the bristles. Yesterday during my free period. It actually didn’t take as long as I thought.”

“You’re joking. That’s it? You’re done?” Harry gaped.

“I’m done,” she shrugged. “You have to admit, the woman has a soft spot when it comes to Quidditch, and she really wants Gryffindor to win this year now that she’s Headmistress. It’d be bad if the captain was stuck in detention, don’t you think?”

“Why do I feel like you’re breaking more rules than me now? What did Parkinson have to do?”

Ginny leaned her head against the glass and frowned. “Not a thing. I have to say, she really put on a show in there.”

“What do you mean?”

“The whole thing was like a sob story—actually sobbing, the whole time—about how she didn’t _really_ want to turn you over to Voldemort. She claimed she was just scared and wanted the Death Eaters out of Hogwarts. So now this whole letter-prank issue has convinced her she’s a victim because no one wants to listen to the poor, misunderstood Slytherin trying to save her reputation.”

Harry readjusted on the ledge, bringing his leg up against his chest. “Do you believe her? About turning me over?”

“I don’t know, Harry, and honestly—I don’t care. I don’t think any of them should be here.” Ginny crossed her own leg over his so that they were nearly perfectly mirroring each other, framed by the window.

“Are you still mad at me?” Harry asked. He was watching an owl depart from the West Tower. It was like a small black speck against the puffy clouds.

His question was met with silence. Confused, Harry pried his eyes off the grounds and lifted his head to look at Ginny. She was staring at him. _Oh, this can’t be good_ , he thought.

She leaned forward and pushed the hair out of his eyes; it immediately sprung back. After playing with his hair a bit more, she leaned back and started wringing her hands together. _Oh_ , Harry thought, _this is_ really _not good_.

“Harry— I think we need to take a break,” she said. Her words were heavy like she was trying to stop something from bubbling over. “Honestly, it feels like we’ve already been taking a break, so I— I want to break up, actually.”

“Oh.” Though he wanted to ask a million questions, none of them came to his tongue.

“I’m sorry,” Ginny said, quickly jumping off the ledge. She ran off down the corridor, nearly colliding into a student coming from the opposite direction as she did.

Harry sadly slid himself off the window ledge. He stood there, in the middle of the corridor, dumbfounded.

“Potter.” Harry looked up. Malfoy was standing in front of him in the hall, having come up from the other side, where Ginny had very nearly knocked him down. He had awkwardly said the boy’s name in an attempted greeting.

Harry nodded once, and then very thickly said, “Excuse me,” before cutting past Malfoy and whisking down the corridor. Malfoy watched him go, confused.

After allowing himself to cry into his pillow, unleashing everything he’d bottled up during the past few weeks, Harry was left with five minutes to wash his face and run to the Transfiguration classroom. He arrived with only seconds to spare and dashed straight to Ron and Hermione.

“Guys, what are we doing today?” He was out of breath.

“Hair color charms,” Ron told him. “We’re in pairs.”

“Brilliant.” Harry allowed himself to relax a moment and then turned to Ron. “Can you please let me have Hermione today? I need her. Hermione?” He looked to her, hopeful.

“Yes, of course, it’s fine,” she told him. Ron was less willing to forgo, but he didn’t have much of a choice.

While Ron wandered off in search of Neville, the two of them collected their working stools and found an empty corner where they could set up. They sat down and Hermione looked him directly in the eyes (which were still red-rimmed and slightly puffy).

“What happened?” she asked.

 _Breathe, dammit_. “Ginny just broke up with me.”

Hermione, who’d been in the process of opening her book to the appropriate lesson page, dropped it to the floor. She furiously whispered, “ _Broke up?_ ”

Nodding, Harry shut his eyes. “Is it me, Hermione? Am I broken?”

“Well, Ron told me you two had a row, but... No, I don’t understand. Did she say why?”

He shook his head. “I think it’s all this bunk with the Slytherins and Dean and everything... She doesn’t trust my judgment.”

“ _Crinus Muto_ ,” Hermione chanted with her wand pointed at Harry’s head. She sighed, looking him in the eyes. “So, how do you feel about it?”

“My hair? I can’t see it.”

Hermione shook her head. “About Ginny,” she clarified. To assist him, she grabbed one of the hand mirrors McGonagall had passed out at the start of class.

He took the mirror; his hair had turned a medium brown, not much lighter than his normal black hair. “Is that what you were going for?”

“No, I was trying for blond. I’ll get it next time. You go.”

“I guess I don’t know how I feel. I’m frustrated. It’s like everyone always has these expectations for me, you know? And when I was trying to make everyone happy, in the end, no one was happy. Especially not me.”

He attempted to turn Hermione’s thick hair to blue. Nothing happened.

“Then maybe you should just take the break. You’ve got a lot on your plate already with your detentions. It won’t hurt to let things settle down. She’ll come back.”

“You really think so?”

“Ron did,” she smirked. “Perhaps it’s a Weasley tradition. _Crinus Muto!_ ”

That time, his hair turned a shining gold.

By the end of their Double Transfiguration class, Harry had only managed to turn Hermione’s hair a slightly purplish brown. Ron met them by the door, his hair turned black and slightly singed at the ends by Neville’s haphazard spellwork. He warned Harry that he would owe him, though what he owed was yet to be determined.

After dinner, Hermione left with Harry to get an early start on setting up the wards. She was actually excited about getting to help on the grounds after spending so many days cooped up in the tower and writing essays, and Harry found that her excitement was slightly contagious. It was at least a big step up from his earlier mood.

The air was still warm as they walked onto the grounds, though it was beginning to fade since the sun had set. Turning right off the north path, they began the march downhill toward Hagrid’s hut. Harry saw that the pumpkins in Hagrid’s garden looked ready to be picked; some of them were reaching sizes as big as the half-giant’s head.

He led Hermione to the stables on the outer edge of the Forbidden Forest and unlocked the stalls so she could see the creatures inside. Though it was already turning to dark outside, there was just enough remnant light from the dusk to allow them to see the animals without aid. It was actually the first time Harry had seen them well enough to notice their more intricate features.

The firedrakes looked almost like giant bats—they were hanging from the ceiling by their sparkling tails, wrapped up in their wings and fast asleep. Their colors were a spattered black on fleshy coral, making Harry think of a rusted skillet.

On the other side were the dodo birds: his greatest enemy since the fall of Voldemort. They were tall and round like huge teddy bears, but without arms and instead little wings tucked behind their backs, and their colors were like mixed blue and pink cotton candy, set apart by a thick black beak.

“So _those_ are the creatures giving you so much trouble?” Hermione asked, smiling at the chubby flightless birds.

“Yes,” he answered in as serious a tone as he could muster. Admittedly, they were very cute; but they were still his every waking nightmare.

After locking the stables back up, they walked to the clearing and the outpost.

“I think we should start with a general protective enchantment,” Hermione said. “It’ll be a good base to build the wards on.”

She led him in casting, using the _Protego totalum_ incantation, until they had enveloped the outpost, clearing, and the stables all into a dome protected by the spell. Its purpose would be to shield anyone (or any _thing_ ) from entering the area, and would hopefully be the only roadblock they needed to keep the animals happy. The rest of the wards would be added as a backup.

“When Malfoy arrives,” Hermione said as they finished the protection spell, “You’ll need to let him in. I’ll show you the charm for it before I leave. Then you two should be able to set up the wards on your own after tonight.”

“Well, I’ll have to set them myself, but I think I can handle it. Malfoy can’t use his wand out of classes.”

“Really?” Hermione stared. “How does he get homework done?”

“I don’t know, actually... Never asked.”

The next enchantment they placed around the dome was the intruder charm, which would trigger an alarm when broken. Harry and Malfoy had so far been unable to know the exact moment the animals’ stables were disturbed; their only alarm up to this point had been the creatures themselves as they were escaping. Harry hoped this spell would give them enough of an early start to reach the stables before any of the animals could get out.

After that, Hermione suggested adding _Salvio hexia_ on top just in case. The spell, which was used to deflect hexes, was one they were both accustomed to casting from their time in the woods. Hermione’s hope was that even if the mystery instigator could somehow attack the stables from outside of the protective wards, this charm would stop the spells from getting through. They had the enchantment done in no time, and both felt satisfied that the newly placed wards would be all Harry needed for a successful night on the grounds.

With that, Hermione showed him the spell he would need to allow Malfoy into the wards, and then she began her trek back to the castle after giving Harry a tight good-luck-and-sorry-about-your-breakup hug.

Harry sat down at the outpost and checked the time—it was fifteen minutes after nine o’clock, meaning he and Hermione had taken about forty minutes to set the wards. It was now fully dark outside. Harry wrapped himself in his cloak and Gryffindor scarf and patiently awaited Malfoy’s arrival.

It wasn’t long until he spotted something bright coming down the hill—it was a white glow like _Lumos_ , not yellow like the lanterns, so Harry wondered who it could be casting the light. He jumped down from his seat and jogged halfway up the hill to stop whoever it was from setting off his enchantments.

“Potter, did you get Granger to help you with the wards?” It was Malfoy after all. The Slytherin was dressed warm and was holding a lantern, though Harry noticed the inside was filled with something bright white and wriggling inside.

“Yeah. Come on down and I’ll set up the charm so you can enter.” It was an easy enough spell, and so they both crossed the clearing and settled down at the outpost.

“So, what have you got?” Harry asked, gesturing to the peculiar lantern.

“The answer to the other half of your questions last night,” Malfoy stated. “While I was in the Headmaster’s tower, I asked McGonagall how we could get some more light on the grounds. She talked to Hagrid about it, and so they came up with these.”

He passed the lantern over. Harry opened the top, allowing one of the glowbugs to escape. It flew around his ear with a high _hum_ and then traveled across the clearing. The bug was so bright that it illuminated anything within a few feet from it.

Malfoy continued, “She said all you need to do is whistle a high tone and they’ll return to the lantern.”

Harry stared at the rest wriggling inside the glass, set on his lap. Their combined light was blinding at such a close range. “This is bizarre,” he said in a low tone.

“It wasn’t exactly my first choice for a light either, but I suppose it’s better than running around completely blind.”

“No,” Harry spoke up, “That’s not what I meant...” He set the lantern down on the grass and looked at Malfoy. “I had a dream about this last weekend. The bugs, and a lantern, in the dark forest...”

The Slytherin looked skeptical, though intrigued. Malfoy was always one open to gossip and information, but he wasn’t very keen on being pranked.

“You probably saw some one night on the grounds without even realizing. Apparently, they were collected from the forest,” he protested.

Harry shook his head. “You don’t understand—this isn’t the only dream like this I’ve had lately. Actually, Malfoy—”

He paused. This could be his way in, to testing the waters on how someone might react to his recent escapades with the Mirror. However, Draco Malfoy was not exactly his ideal test subject. While Harry didn’t think his dreams were anything of grand importance, he didn’t want to be mocked for them.

He knew he should have gone to Hermione about it from the start, because of anyone, she would know what to do. At the least, she could surely figure it out given the right book. But she would tell Ron, who would be offended that Harry, his best mate, hadn’t confided in him first. He could have also told Ginny, though that possibility was now dead in the water. No, what he needed was someone who didn’t give a shit about Harry’s life—someone who could listen without subsequently berating Harry for bottling up his problems or worrying about the boy’s wellbeing.

Which was why Harry now found himself ready to tell it all to Malfoy.

“Actually _what?_ ” Malfoy asked after Harry had paused for too long.

“Are you good at keeping secrets?” he began. The question already sounded ridiculous.

Malfoy blinked. “Me, keep _your_ secrets? Are you mad?”

“Maybe,” Harry conceded. “But answer me.”

Malfoy paused to think. “Depends on what it is. What if it’s something really embarrassing?”

“It’s not,” Harry frowned. “You have to promise me you won’t tell anyone.”

The little glowbug whizzed by them again. Malfoy shifted in his seat.

“No one would believe me anyway, except for Pansy,” he said.

“You can’t tell her either. It can’t start spreading around, or then my friends will find out about it, and they’ll start worrying about me.”

Malfoy’s eyebrows rose. “You _are_ mad. You’re telling me a secret you haven’t even graced your dear Granger or Weasley with?”

“Promise me, Malfoy.”

“Fine,” he huffed. “I’d die if I didn’t know what it is now.”

It was passing ten o’clock as they sat; all the lights of the castle were beginning to fade out. Only the light of the glowbugs cast them in a pale white against the blue darkness.

 _This is a mistake_ , was Harry’s last weakening thought before his mouth opened and took over. He began, “It started over summer when I was working on the reconstruction. I had a dream where I was back in the third-floor corridor during first year. Do you know what was in the corridor?”

“No,” Malfoy said. “You mean back then? Didn’t Dumbl—” he breathed, “Didn’t the professors say there was a stone of some sort?”

“Yes, but that’s not what I’m talking about. Do you know the Mirror of Erised?”

Malfoy was looking more confused by the second. “No,” he said again. He’d of course been absent when Flitwick showed the mirror in their Advanced Charms class.

“Okay,” Harry continued, “So there was a mirror that someone bewitched to show people’s desires—”

Malfoy’s face pinched and he interrupted, “That sounds vulgar.”

“No, it really isn’t. Well, I guess Anthony Goldstein’s was. Be glad you missed that session in Charms. But anyway—this mirror was placed in a maze underneath the third-floor corridor during first year in order to hide the stone. I had a dream about it.”

“This is a very boring secret so far, Potter.”

“Let me finish!” Harry cut him off. “After first year, it was sent away from the castle to someone else. So, after I had that dream and woke up the very same day, when I went into the castle to work, the Mirror had been returned to the school from an anonymous donor. Would you say that’s coincidence?”

“Possibly,” Malfoy said.

“Well, I haven’t even got to the real secret yet. Do you still want to hear it, or are you going to accuse me of boring you to death?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Go on.”

“There’s something about the dream I didn’t tell you. So, when you look into the mirror, it’ll show you however you want to be. Like, it might show you winning awards or joining your favorite Quidditch team, for example.

“But in my dream, when I looked into the mirror, I saw nothing.”

Malfoy titled his head. “You mean it only showed yourself, like any other mirror?”

“No, I mean it didn’t show my reflection at all. Only the wall behind me, as if I wasn’t even there,” Harry answered. “And before you cut me off again, _listen_ — When the Mirror, the real Mirror, was sent back to Hogwarts this summer and I stepped in front of it during Flitwick’s class, what do you think I saw, Malfoy?”

The other boy said nothing, instead waiting for the answer. The air was silent and thick around them. Harry leaned in and said quietly, “Nothing. Just like in my dream.”

He leaned back and continued, “And that’s not even half of it. I keep having these dreams—they’re all really vivid, and sometimes I can’t even tell if I’m really asleep or awake—and every single one of them ends with me seeing that Mirror.”

Again, they sat in silence. Harry quickly said, “Say something, Malfoy.”

The Slytherin sat upright in his seat. “This mirror of yours is still in the castle?” he asked.

“Yes,” Harry answered.

“And this isn’t some elaborate prank meant to get me expelled?” Malfoy asked, a little uncertain.

“I’ll swear on Dumbledore’s grave,” Harry said, deadly serious. His statement made Malfoy recoil back against his seat. Feeling he’d perhaps gone too far with that one, Harry said, “I just needed to get this all out of my head. I don’t want anyone else to know about it. Nobody else has had any problems with the Mirror—just me.”

Suddenly, there was the clear sound of a branch cracking, and it snapped them both up from their seats. The wards were still secure. Harry ran around the outpost and looked back toward the forest, his wand already drawn. Malfoy opened the lantern, allowing all the glowbugs to spread out and give them more visibility in their circle.

“Do you see anything?” Harry shouted.

“No!” The Slytherin called back. While the clearing was now lit up bright, the outside of their protective dome was left completely black.

With no warning, a crackling ripple passed through the protective dome encasing them. Immediately, the wards broke—the intruder charm triggered, blaring a horrible noise in their ears that sounded like a crying woman trapped in a deep tunnel—and the whole dome of enchantments ripped apart and collapsed, dropping magical sparks upon them.

Harry was on his knees, clutching his ears, when the stable doors blasted open. A firedrake whipped past him and knocked him onto his back with its wing. “ _Finite incantatum!_ ” Harry yelled, pointing his wand directly toward the sky. The alarm stopped abruptly and he allowed himself to breathe.

Malfoy came running from across the clearing. “Did you see anything? What happened to your wards?” he asked.

Harry sat up. His neck was being uncomfortably strangled by his Gryffindor scarf, which he pulled free and cast to the ground, coughing. The firedrake had cut his cheek in the impact and it was bleeding.

“Whatever it was,” Harry said, “It got past an anti-hexing charm and the protective shield enchantment. The only one that stuck was the bloody alarm.”

 _Pop!_ One of the dodos apparated into the clearing. It was fidgeting in fear, and when Malfoy started running after it with both his arms held out, the bird began honking its beak and waddling away from him. The Slytherin easily caught up to the dodo, but as he did, it disapparated and caused Malfoy to stumble and fall face-first on the grass.

Harry couldn’t help it—he started laughing uncontrollably. Malfoy pushed himself off the ground and was spluttering grass out of his mouth. This only made the Gryffindor laugh harder.

“Dammit, Potter, get off your arse and help me!” Malfoy shouted, though he was clearly trying to stop himself from laughing too.

By midnight, it was beginning to rain, and they were locking in the last of the firedrakes. They were getting better at it, but the dodos still proved a challenge. They had only caught half of them.

With a final _hum_ , Harry shut the glowbugs into their lantern. All in all, the bugs had only provided a small amount of help. It was difficult to get them to follow along as Harry and Malfoy ran around the grounds.

Rain was pattering against his cloak. Harry held the lantern aloft and walked around the forest’s perimeter. The glowbugs’ light only pierced through the shallow edge of the trees; the rest was too thick to see into without stepping closer. It was an absolute mystery what was doing this to the animals, and _why_. None of it made any sense to him.

Overhead, low thunder rumbled in the distance.

“So,” Malfoy began when Harry returned to the clearing. “I was thinking about your Mirror problem. I want to see it.”

“You do?” Harry asked. They were walking past Hagrid’s garden.

“When can you take me there?”

There was only one problem: the Mirror was stuck in the staffroom behind the teachers’ wards, and Harry hadn’t yet figured out a way to get in there. But he didn’t necessarily need to get inside the staffroom to show the Mirror to Malfoy.

“Right now,” he answered as they took the hill up to the castle.

“How are we going to get past Filch?” Malfoy asked as they came to the north path.

Harry smirked. Ever since their first night of detention, he’d started coming to the grounds more prepared, and not just with warmer robes. He also had the invisibility cloak wrapped up in his bag. If you had asked Harry even the day before if he’d ever consider sharing the cloak with Malfoy, it would have been an easy ‘No.’ But these days, the Mirror took precedent over all his preconceived notions.

When they reached the castle doors and stepped inside, shaking the rain off their robes, Harry took his bag out.

“If you think I’m getting under that thing with you,” Malfoy said when Harry unrolled the cloak in front of him, “You can wrangle all the dodos by yourself for a week.”

Apparently, even if Harry was bent to his insane fascination with the Mirror enough to do it, Malfoy was not.

“All right, fine,” he conceded and rolled the cloak back up. He had other methods. He dug around in his bag until he felt thin parchment. Turning around so Malfoy wouldn’t see, Harry stuck his wand against the Marauder’s map and whispered, “ _I solemnly swear that I am up to no good_.” Filch was up on the seventh floor.

“Okay,” Harry said after turning back to Malfoy. “We’re in the clear. Let’s go.”

“And how would you know that?”

“You didn’t want to cooperate, so now I’m not telling you.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “You sound like a five-year-old.”

He followed Harry across to the entrance hall, up the marble stairs, and then to the third-floor, where they turned down the Charms corridor. When they came into the classroom, Harry shut and locked the doors behind them. For good measure, he also set a silencing charm.

Inside, the room was dark except for the occasional lightning strike streaking through the windows and illuminating the stones. The storm outside was growing harder, and the rain could be heard smacking against the panes.

Malfoy stood, unimpressed and looking around the empty room. “I see no mirror, Potter.”

“Just a second,” he responded. “Kreacher!”

The _CRACK_ startled Malfoy, nearly knocking him to the floor. “Merlin,” he breathed, “Warn me next time.” He backed away, looking horrified, as the house-elf approached him and bowed.

“Kreacher, I want you to go back to the staffroom, grab the Mirror, and bring it to this room. Can you do that?” Harry asked.

The house-elf pried his eyes away from Malfoy and nodded in confirmation. In a snap, he disappeared, and nearly just as fast, he returned at the center of the classroom with the sheeted Mirror.

Quickly, Harry approached the Mirror and threw the sheet to the floor. He fixed himself in front of the glass and shivered. It was not only that his reflection was missing, but it was eerier when he could see Malfoy in the reflection from across the room.

“Well, I can see _you_ in it, at least,” Harry said to him.

Malfoy stepped forward. “You really can’t see yourself?”

Harry shook his head and moved out of the way so Malfoy could inspect the Mirror. As expected, when the Slytherin looked into the glass, he was shocked. He whipped his head around behind him. His eyes were nearly bulging out, and his skin turning pale. He looked back at the reflection.

“You said this thing shows what we want? You’re certain it doesn’t show some possible future?”

“Trust me, I know it doesn’t show any future.” Harry pointed. “It’s written there on the frame: ‘I show your heart’s desire.’ So, what do you see?”

Malfoy scoffed, “As if I’m going to tell you something like that. Who do you think you are?”

“Um, Harry Potter? The Chosen One?” Harry joked. “What is it you like to call me—the Golden Boy _Savior_ of the wizarding world?”

“It’s only funny when I say it,” Malfoy said with a sneer.

“Come on, I already told you what I saw. It’s only fair.”

“Seeing nothing isn’t the same. I’m not going to tell you.” The Slytherin backed up and tossed the sheet over the Mirror. Harry’s eyebrows rose.

Malfoy turned on the spot and looked him in the eyes. “How do you know it can’t tell the future?” he demanded.

Harry sighed. He was tired of explaining it, and this subject especially was a sensitive one when it came between himself and Malfoy. “Because the first time I ever looked into the mirror, back in first year, it showed me with my parents.”

“Oh,” Malfoy said sharply. The silence that followed was incredibly awkward. Only the pattering rain could be heard. There was a long, extended pause before Malfoy suggested rather hoarsely, “Well, maybe— Maybe the mirror is broken. It could have been damaged when they transported it.”

“It isn’t broken, though. It’s worked for everyone but me, which means... I think it’s me. There’s something wrong with _me_ ,” Harry said. Lightning momentarily lit his face with white.

“Like what?” Malfoy asked, and for once, he didn’t seize the opportunity to mock Harry with a ‘ _Well, of course there’s something wrong with_ you _, Scarhead_.’

Harry said softly, “I was thinking maybe it means my desire is to... not exist.” Thunder boomed.

In the blue darkness, Malfoy was staring at him. They were close enough that Harry could see the sharp curvature of his eyes, which seemed to always be open so wide with fear in recent history.

Malfoy blinked and looked away, turning his head to the sheeted mirror. “No,” he said, “This... This thing couldn’t comprehend something like that. Magic can only go so deep.” He turned back to Harry and asked, “When you look into the reflection, what do you feel?”

“Like there’s something very wrong,” he breathed. The back of his neck was prickling with tension. “But it’s even more than that—How could I dream of it before it even happened?”

The storm continued to rage. Harry scuffed his shoe against the stone floor and continued, “I want to know what it means... why my dreams have become so real. I haven’t had visions like this since— Before the Battle, when Voldemort was in my head.”

He’d said too much. Malfoy stepped back in fear. Lightning flashed again, illuminating the Slytherin’s shocked expression.

Harry breathed, “If it’s not showing my desire, but something else about me... I think I might know why my reflection’s missing. It doesn’t explain the dreams, but... I’m worried that I’m right.”

He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Malfoy, I don’t know how much you remember of the trials, but—”

“All of it,” the Slytherin said. They were straying too far into territory that neither wanted to remember, Harry knew, but it was the only way to explain it.

“You know I was hit with the killing curse. The second time, technically.”

Malfoy nodded.

“So, as it’s been told: the first time I got hit, it didn’t work, and rebounded back onto Voldemort.”

“ _Don’t say his name_ ,” the Slytherin whispered and shuddered.

Harry continued, “The second time I got hit, it really did hit me.”

Malfoy, who’d been clutching his arms together and looking at the floor, looked directly into Harry’s eyes. “What are you saying?” he asked.

“I mean I really did die.”

Malfoy moved further back, drawing himself into the shadows. “But— That’s impossible. If you were dead, you wouldn’t be here. My mother said it herself at the trial—you survived it. If you had died, Potter... We’d all be dead.” A rumbling thunder shook the castle.

“The only way to win the War,” Harry said slowly, stepping slightly forward, “Was for Voldemort to kill me. But because he used my blood to restore his body, I couldn’t fully die. I was stuck in Limbo, and there I was given the option to move on or come back. I came back.

“So what if the reason I have no reflection...” he whispered, afraid to put a voice to it, “Is because of that choice? What if a part of me is still dead? What if the Mirror doesn’t see me because I lost that part of myself in Limbo—my soul?”

Harry’s voiced dropped off completely. Thunder was rolling overhead and his heart was pounding. He had only meant to tell Malfoy about the Mirror, and now he’d let everything he had left spill out. What Harry had really wanted was someone to talk it all out with, so he could finally put it all to words, but now he had gone and told his darkest secrets to his childhood rival. What in the world was he thinking?

He felt more terrified in that moment than even Malfoy looked. Harry was standing there, left alone in the dim moonlight that fell through the windows. He fell back against the professor’s desk behind him, unable to stand any longer. He sat on top of it with his legs dangling. His breaths were coming in waves.

From the shadows, Malfoy finally emerged with a solemn face. He walked to the desk and sat on the opposite corner of it, looking at the floor. Harry turned his head toward the boy and asked, “Aren’t you afraid of me?”

Malfoy shut his eyes and let out a hollow laugh. “What I am... is a fool,” he said, voice cracking.

Harry waited in thick silence for him to continue. The Slytherin left his gaze unfocused on the stone and said, louder, “I hated you before I even met you, did you know that?”

“Um—I guess that sounds about right.” Harry frowned.

Malfoy explained, “All my life, I heard about this infamous ‘Boy Who Lived;’ in my family’s circles, you may as well have been the thing of nightmares. And then when I met you, I hated you even more, because you were exactly the star everyone else thought of you as. And you turned up your nose up at me.”

At that, he met Harry’s gaze evenly. “It was like you were good, and I was bad,” he said, “And that’s just how it was made to be. The noble Gryffindor and the two-faced Slytherin: fated at birth to forever be on opposing sides.”

Malfoy drew his legs onto the desk and rested his arms and chin upon his knees. He looked sadly across to the doors. “The truth is I was jealous. You got all the attention; you could never do anything wrong. Even my own father was obsessed with you because of his precious _Dark Lord_ ,” he whispered the name viciously. “My House was always the one spoken of in whispers, while yours was the one stealing victory in the last second because _you_ were ever the hero people thought you to be.

“At every turn, I was always on the wrong side, because I’m a Malfoy, and that’s where my place is. I wanted to be noticed. I wanted to have my own adventures. It felt like I was stuck in a story I didn’t get to write.”

Thunder boomed again. Malfoy’s breathing was growing ragged.

“I was blind,” he continued. “I thought if I joined _them_ I would somehow become the hero. Not of your story, but mine. Really, it was all a front. My family’s lives were at stake. _He_ made sure that I would be punished for my father’s mistakes by joining... All the mistakes I’d been at the will of ever since I was born.

“It was only fitting that my pure bloodline would doom me to failure when I was raised to believe it would be my success over the muggleborns and halfbloods. No, instead, Granger’s the ‘brightest witch of our age,’ you’re the Chosen One, and I’m skulking around corners, not even able to let myself into my own dormitory because my privileges have been restricted by the Ministry. For my own foolishness.

“Do you want to know what the worst part is, Potter?”

Harry was dumbfounded to say anything at all. “You want my actual thoughts on the matter?” he asked. For instance, he might start with pointing out that he hadn’t had it all so great either, being destined to die and all, and that being hero-worshipped as an eleven-year-old was not exactly enjoyable.

Malfoy, however, went on without him: “The worst part... is that I couldn’t even realize that I had been wrong my whole life until I was forced to choose between killing or being killed. I saw in that moment that everyone who’d cursed the Malfoy name or spoken in hushed tones about Slytherin was actually proven right about the lot of us, because here I had fallen in line with what everyone’s worst thoughts were. How could I ever be a hero? I’m just the foil to show how much _better_ you are.

“Do you know why I hate you now?” he asked, looking into Harry’s eyes.

Harry felt that this was a trick question. The Slytherin had become increasingly hysteric as he ranted, and Harry was not about to pry.

Malfoy stood, walking into the moonlight, and answered, “I hate you for coming back for me. When I looked down into that Fiendfyre, I knew I was dead. I mean, you’d have been a fool to save me—but then you went and did it anyway.

“I thought I would die, and it wouldn’t have even been how I expected it. I thought it’d be— be _Voldemort_ or another Death Eater... But no, instead I’d die from my own foolish pride in thinking I could go after you and get my stupid wand back. It would have been poetic, really. A fucking wand! They could have killed you right there had you not been so lucky, and then everyone, including you, would have died because of me. For nothing.

“I think _I_ was meant to die. Ever since that day I’ve felt like there’s nothing left for me. Like I’m this character who escaped between the pages and _I’m_ the one who should be in Limbo, not you. But then you stand here and tell me _you_ were the one who died. It isn’t right. _Fuck_ ,” he ended at last and sat harshly on the floor.

Rain was still pattering hard against the windows, though it wasn’t enough to cover up Malfoy’s clear sob, which he was trying to hide with his hand. Just as Harry had wanted so badly to vent without scaring his friends, he thought maybe Malfoy had been looking for the same thing.

They were both startled by the sound of the sheet falling from the Mirror; it must have been placed haphazardly.

Harry willed his limbs to move (they had turned to stone during all the monologuing); he jumped off the desk and walked to the Mirror, bending to grab the sheet. As he did, he saw something in the reflection—to him, it had looked like a shadow shifting across the back wall, but with all the storm raging on outside, he couldn’t be sure. He quickly looked back.

“What is it?” Malfoy asked. His voice was thick.

“Nothing. I thought I saw something,” Harry answered. There was nothing in the room (well, besides Kreacher, who had been awkwardly standing by the Mirror during the whole rant). He replaced the sheet over the old mirror.

“Kreacher, could you take this back now? And, er—sorry about... all that. Please go make yourself another pudding, or something.”

The house-elf toddled over to Harry and beckoned him to lean over. He whispered into Harry’s ear, “Should Kreacher bring the young Master Malfoy a pudding as well?”

Harry sighed. “No, Kreacher, we’re fine. Go on.”

“As Master wishes,” he said and bowed. With a snap, Kreacher and the Mirror were gone. If Harry had thought it’d been awkward before, it was even worse now that he had nothing to do but look at Malfoy.

Harry crossed over to his bag, left forgotten on one of the desks, and checked the map. Not much had changed; Filch was now on the second floor. He closed the map and then checked the time with a _Tempus_ spell. He noted with despair that it was already nearly two in the morning. Double Potions in a few hours would be a nightmare for certain.

“Malfoy—” he started. He knew they would need to go up to the tower together, so Malfoy could get inside.

“Wait,” the other boy said, cutting him off. He was still sitting on the floor and looking half-dead. “There is something I needed to say. I realize it doesn’t amount to much now, but...

“I really am sorry. For how I treated you. I didn’t understand— I was spoiled and blind. I see that now. I didn’t understand until it was my own parents. None of this needed to have happened— None of it...”

Harry breathed. “Malfoy, get up.” He grabbed him by the arms and lifted him until the boy could stand by himself. It was a little awkward since the Slytherin was quite a bit taller than him.

After letting him go, he stepped back and was preparing to say something potentially very stupid. Malfoy might either laugh or punch him—in his state, Harry supposed even both at the same time was possible.

He cleared his throat and said, very theatrically, “You know, you’ll soon find out some friends are much better than others, Malfoy. You don’t want to go making them with the wrong sort. I can help you there.”

To add to his dramatic imitation, he stuck out his hand with flare.

Malfoy snorted. His eyes were red and puffy. “Is that what you think I sound like?” he asked in a whine. “It was an awful imitation.”

“You’ve got to finish with your line. And make sure to capture my charming wit.”

At that, the Slytherin let out a cackle and wiped his eye. “All right.” Malfoy straightened his back and glared down at Harry. He recited, “I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks.”

Harry dropped his hand and grinned to himself. Malfoy’s acting was even more over the top than his. “So, what sort am I?” he asked.

“Gryffindor, obviously,” Malfoy said with an eyeroll. “Though I suppose you aren’t so bad after all. Want to try again?”

He held his hand out to Harry. The storm was still raging outside, though neither paid it much attention. Harry grabbed his hand and shook firmly.

“Nice to meet you, Draco Malfoy,” he said.

Draco, about to reply, was suddenly cut off by the classroom’s doors being blown open. Potter quickly turned and looked through the now open doorway, probably thinking it would be Filch, but no one was there. The Gryffindor ran forward and drew his wand.

“Potter— Wait—” Draco called from behind and chased after him.

They came into the hall and wildly looked around, but the corridor was empty and silent. They were both breathing hard from shock.

Potter pulled out a folded parchment from his bag and looked at it with a calculating expression. “No one’s here,” he breathed.

“That’s what worries me,” Draco whispered back.

 _Creeeeeaaak_. Potter spun around. Just across the hallway, at a slight diagonal from where they stood, a door to another classroom opened wide. It couldn’t just be coincidence. Before the maniac could run off again, Draco gripped his arm.

“What if it’s just Peeves, trying to get us in trouble?”

“But what if it’s _not_?” Potter asked in return. He pushed away and ran to the open door.

“Then that would be an even worse idea to chase!” Draco replied in vain. He ran after him. As he turned around the corner and into the room, Potter was already at the far wall. There was another door possibly leading to a side room, and it appeared to be locked.

The Gryffindor hit it with _Alohomora_. The lock clicked. “Potter, don’t—” Draco tried to warn, but it was too late.

As Potter turned the knob and slowly opened the door, multiple things happened: first, the door behind Draco, which they’d just run through, shut; second, as he ran across the room, he pulled out his wand, forgetting in the heat of the moment that it would do him no good; and thirdly, when Potter had fully opened the door, he was immediately struck by a silent spell. It hit him squarely on the chest, sending him flying back, and shot up red sparks.

“ _Protego!_ ” Draco shouted at the door, thinking he would be hit next. Nothing happened. His wand was useless, but luckily nothing was thrown at him.

“Fuck,” he breathed. He ran back to Potter, who was lying stiff on the floor and with a pained expression. Fortunately, he could still move his head and shoulders.

“What was it? Did you see who did it?” Draco asked him hurriedly.

“I think it was a stunner,” he gritted out. “Malfoy, go chase them down. Someone’s broken into the castle and we need to catch them. GO!”

The shout was so loud and angry that even Draco, who was absolutely terrified, jumped up and did as he was told. He pushed his hand against the door, which opened inwardly into the room, and looked inside. It was too dark to see. Thinking quickly, he grabbed Potter’s wand off the floor and cast _Lumos_.

Though it took some effort, the spell lit the wand tip and spread across the room. To Draco’s mounting horror, he saw nothing against the back wall—there was no door to escape through. The room itself appeared empty; it looked like an old classroom now used for storing supplies. There were two windows against the wall being hammered by the storm.

Breathing erratically, Draco turned his head right—the corner was empty. Lightning flashed, brightening everything momentarily. There was nothing in sight. Terrified, he realized the only place the caster could hide was directly to his left side, behind the door.

Thunder rumbled all around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter kind of encapsulates all the ideas that led me to finally sitting down and writing everything out. And as of right now, I have about 95k words written for it (many as of yet un-posted and waiting). I hope you continue to read, and enjoy it! Let me know what you think.


	9. Unearthed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween!

“ _Haa_ — _Haa_ —” Draco’s breathing was so heavy he could barely hear the rain pattering against the windows on the far wall, across from where he stood in the doorway. Potter’s wand in his hand was shaking; he was horrified, certain that only inches away from him, on the other side of the thick wood door, was the attacker.

Thunder rumbled. It shook him from the inside.

Draco slammed the door shut and locked it with a spell. Then, he pivoted on the spot and ran to Potter, who was left lying stiff on the floor, and began pulling the Gryffindor upright.

“Potter, we need to go. Now,” Draco breathed.

“I can’t feel anything. I won’t be able to walk,” he replied. Potter was straining to lift his head, though he couldn’t get very far in his attempt.

“We don’t have time to worry about it. I’ll lift you. Just try.”

“What did you see in there?”

“Nothing,” Draco said in fear. “There was no one inside.”

With one horrible wrenching movement, Draco lifted Potter up by his arm and leaned the Gryffindor’s weight against him. With Potter’s wand still held in his other hand, he blew open the door and carried him out to the corridor.

It was hard work even getting to the stairs, but they carried on. Potter couldn’t move his lower half at all; he was only able to maintain a feeble grip on Draco with his hands.

They pushed forward—Draco was being fueled by his own terrified burst of adrenaline, and it helped that Potter was shorter than him. When they reached the grand staircase, Potter still couldn’t adjust his feet, leaving Draco to summon a quick solution.

Though it wasn’t his best spellwork, he found a way to get Potter down using a weightlessness charm that only slightly eased the boy’s load. Getting the Gryffindor down to the first floor felt a lot like trying to transport a heavy wooden shelf full of loose books.

As they lumbered around the corner toward the Hospital wing, Draco tucked Potter’s wand back into the Gryffindor’s pocket. He knew that if anyone discovered him using the wand, he would immediately be reported, sent to a hearing at the Ministry, and expelled from Hogwarts.

He knocked relentlessly against the large wooden door to the wing and looked over his shoulder to make sure they hadn’t been followed. The hall was empty and dark, and though the only sound he could hear was the rainstorm raging against the castle walls, he felt a terrible foreboding of things to come.

After a few moments, the hospital doors swung open to a vexed Madam Pomfrey. Her beady eyes were wrinkled and rimmed with exhaustion, though when she saw the two boys’ states, she snapped awake and rushed to their aid.

Quickly, she had them both locked inside the wing and levitated Potter onto one of the beds. Draco saw that a couple of the beds in the shadowed wing were already occupied and had curtains drawn.

“What in Godric’s name happened to you two?” Pomfrey asked.

Potter tried in vain to lift his head. Instead, he had to roll it onto his left cheek to peer at the matron from over his thick pillow. “You may as well get the Headmistress now, Madam Pomfrey,” he said. “She’ll need to hear this, too.”

The matron, after tutting to herself about unruly children, cast a curious spell that Draco was unfamiliar with. From her wand bloomed a ghostly blue image of an animal; it ran off and phased through the doors.

After long minutes, during which Potter refused multiple times to take a calming draught, the doors were thrown wide open by the Headmistress. She was dressed in a flowing nightgown and looked positively livid, and Draco thought he knew why—imagine hearing that Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter had arrived at the Hospital wing in the middle of the night, with one unable to move. McGonagall probably thought they’d finally gone at each other’s throats during their detention.

“Potter, start explaining this instant,” she demanded, looking straight past Draco. It figured that she would defer to Potter over him, seeing Gryffindor’s golden boy as the responsible one.

“Professor,” he breathed, “I’m sorry to have to tell you this—I think someone’s broken into the castle.”

As if to capitalize on his overly dramatic reveal, lightning flashed through the windows, painting them all as black silhouettes against the white panes. Potter’s serious expression was illuminated by the storm as he stared straight into McGonagall’s eyes.

Whatever the Headmistress had been expecting to hear, it was certainly not this. She looked at Draco, and then back to Potter. She asked, “Broken into Hogwarts? And how did you come to this conclusion?”

“Start from the beginning, dear,” Pomfrey added.

Although Draco was satisfied to let the golden boy tell the story, since McGonagall was surely more likely to be lenient with the Gryffindor, he was not ready to agree that an outsider was on the loose. Yes, while technically it couldn’t have been Peeves as he’d initially asserted (unless the poltergeist was now stealing wands and learning hexes), it seemed a mighty leap to go straight to blaming unknown intruders.

Draco frowned and only hoped Potter could keep a lid on the details. With all the things they’d done, they could easily land another month’s detention with the dodo birds.

“Malfoy and I were coming back pretty late from detention,” Potter started. “It had been kind of a long night trying to catch all the dodos.”

Okay, so they were going to lie and embellish. Obviously they didn’t want McGonagall to discover they’d been sneaking around with the school’s mirror and monologuing at each other after hours, when they should have already been in their dorms.

Potter continued, “We were going upstairs, and I told Malfoy I thought I heard something. It was down the third-floor corridor.”

Draco had to physically restrain himself from clutching his own face in embarrassment. Merlin, Potter was horrible at lying. On the bright side, it seemed that McGonagall was going with it so far.

Potter continued, “It was hard to hear with the storm going on, though, so I went off down the corridor to check it out. Malfoy came with me since he can’t get into the dorms by himself. Then, when we were in the hallway near Professor Flitwick’s classroom, one of the doors on the opposite wall opened on its own. So, I went to check it.

“When I got in there, I saw the next door across the class close itself. So I ran up to it and hit it with the unlocking charm. When I opened the door, something hit me with a stunning spell. I fell backwards and couldn’t feel my body, but I managed to stay awake. Then I told Malfoy to go check it out.”

He turned his eyes toward Draco and slightly nodded against the pillow, gesturing for him to pick up the rest of the tale. Draco sighed.

“Well, I looked into the next room,” he said. “From what I could see, it was empty. There weren’t any other doors or much to hide behind.”

“You are suggesting the attacker disappeared into thin air?” McGonagall asked.

“Or, more likely,” Draco answered, “They could have been standing in the corner behind the door. I didn’t look. I shut the door and tried to get us down here as quickly as possible before they decided to strike again.”

McGonagall gave a short nod. She walked toward him and held out her hand. “Mr. Malfoy, your wand.”

“He didn’t do anything, Professor,” Potter protested from his bed.

“Mr. Potter, do not speak out of turn again. I will not explain these procedures to you more than once.”

Draco gave it to her, knowing what she would find. It was Potter’s wand he was more worried about—if the Headmistress was suspicious enough, she might try to check his as well.

McGonagall waved her wand around his in a sweeping circle. From out of his wand came the ghostly image. “A failed protection spell,” she said. “Would you like to explain it, Mr. Malfoy?”

“I did it without thinking. Potter had already fallen, and I cast it almost like a muscle memory. I was convinced the attacker would try to stun me next.”

“Are you certain it was a stunning spell?” she asked.

Potter answered, “The sparks were red.”

“Red sparks don’t necessarily mean it was a stunning spell,” Pomfrey replied. “If you were stunned, you would have been knocked unconscious—not immobilized. I would guess you were hit with a body-bind, but I can assess that for certain once the Headmistress is finished.”

Draco silently cursed himself. How could he have been so stupid to think it was a stunning spell? He decided to blame Potter.

“Still,” McGonagall said to Draco, “You can count yourself very lucky that it was only a _Protego_ you tried to cast, Mr. Malfoy. The Ministry knows every spell you attempt, even if it fails, and they have no reservations in removing you from this school.”

Draco nodded. His cheeks were beginning to warm with shame at his own recklessness. The Headmistress returned his wand and then turned on Potter. “Your wand, please, Mr. Potter.”

His heart froze. Draco wasn’t even sure if Potter knew how much he’d used his wand during their escape. The Gryffindor was probably too busy being almost fully paralyzed to notice.

“Peculiar,” McGonagall said. “A weightlessness charm. Would you care to explain?”

“I cast it,” Potter said quickly, “To make it easier to get me down the stairs. Malfoy had to support my weight since I couldn’t move my legs.”

“But you could move your arm to cast this spell, or am I misunderstanding?”

“No, that’s right. I can— kind of—” It was pitiful how badly the boy was straining just to lift his hand off the bed, all to save Draco from being reprimanded. The Savior, through and through.

“Very well,” McGonagall conceded, although it appeared to Draco that she didn’t really believe them. She returned Potter’s wand. “Poppy, please assess Mr. Potter and determine what spell was used against him. Meanwhile, I must go to wake the rest of our staff. If this incident is to be believed, we need to conduct a full search of the school—as soon as possible.”

She vanished through the hospital doors in a flurry of gown. Draco turned back toward the bed and sat in a chair to watch the matron work on Potter. Pomfrey was waving her wand all around the Gryffindor’s body, using a myriad of incantations to check him.

After a while, Draco had leaned back against the cushioned chair and shut his eyes. It wasn’t until he heard the matron’s tone of shock that he opened them again.

“Godric...” she said at last. Pomfrey was looking down at the spectacled boy, her expression grave. “Potter, count your lucky stars that you can move or speak at all.”

“What is it?” he asked. “Was it the body-bind?”

“My boy— You were petrified,” she said hoarsely. “You’re both certain you don’t know the attacker?” They shook their heads.

“Dark magic... Dark magic indeed...” Pomfrey muttered. She quickly straightened up and said, “I must find Professor Sprout at once and head to the greenhouses. We may need Mandrake juice to heal you. I’ll lock you both in when I leave— Do you think you can handle yourselves?”

“Yes,” they said. Draco assumed the only reason she felt comfortable leaving them without supervision was due to his Ministry wand. He was actually a little insulted; after all, who was to say he couldn’t smother Potter to death with a pillow? It wasn’t like the other boy could fight back in his current state.

The matron placed a reassuring hand on Potter’s shoulder and told him, “If you need anything, send a Patronus. And please make sure not to disturb the other guests here.”

After Pomfrey left them, Draco gazed over at Potter; the Gryffindor was still stiff as a board and didn’t look at all comfortable. He knocked his head back against the pillow and shut his eyes in frustration.

“Petrification?” Draco echoed. “Why do these things always seem to happen to you?”

“You think I haven’t been asking myself that all this time?” Potter turned his head and looked at him. Serious now, he said, “I’m starting to think it’s all connected: my dreams, the Mirror, Hagrid’s animals running off... And now this.”

“I’m starting to think you’re right,” Draco said. He rubbed his face. Agreeing with Potter—this would take some getting used to.

“Wait, say that again,” the Gryffindor joked. He was grinning widely. “I want to remember it always.”

“Piss off, Potter. I’m going to flunk Potions this year because of you.”

“Forget about Potions. We’ve got bigger problems to solve now. The dodos can wait, too, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Oh, don’t tell me we’re going after this thing,” Draco moaned.

“If you don’t, I’ll go after it all by myself, and you know what a stupid git I am. I’ll get myself killed. Could you really have that on your conscience?”

“Easily,” Draco sighed and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “But I know I’ve got no choice in the matter.”

“That’s the spirit.”

~~~

“ _Eurgh_...” Harry groaned. He hadn’t expected to wake with so much pain; really, when he thought about it, being half-petrified was a step down compared to getting his ribs cracked by a flying bludger.

The room was pitch black and the air felt slightly muffled in his ears, leading him to guess that the storm was still going on above the castle and grounds, though the thunder had subsided.

His legs were like heavy blocks of wood sinking into the hospital bed, the cloth of which he could only vaguely feel rubbing against his arms. He badly needed to move, if only just to turn on his side. Harry slowly twisted his shoulders, using every ounce of energy he had in the movement, and turned. His head slid down the pillow and hit something hard, causing an audible _thunk_.

“Ow,” he whined. The front of his skull was screaming in pain from the impact. It felt like he’d hit wood, and he thought he’d probably rammed his head into one of Pomfrey’s bedside tables.

He wondered if there was anyone close by he could call for help, though he hated the thought of asking for it. Was Malfoy still locked in with him?

He felt incredibly disoriented, making every moment all the harder. His breathing was heavy and sharp. Harry tested his hands—he could vaguely feel his fingers. Patting down his legs, he searched for his wand. He couldn’t find it in his pockets or on the bed, so he moved to check the table he’d slammed his head against.

 _Whump_. His hand pressed flat against wood. He trailed his fingers further up, seeking the top, only to come into a corner against another wall of wood. It felt as if it was only inches above his head. He tested the opposite side of his narrow bedside, and then behind his head; every attempt met a wall of wood. He was completely encased. Using his arms, he slid himself down the bed until he heard his feet hitting wood.

“Fuck,” Harry breathed. He shut his eyes. He was dreaming, surely, because he’d found himself locked in what he could only assume to be a box—or more likely, a coffin.

He flipped himself onto his back again, threw his hands up against the ceiling, and pushed. The board slightly rattled, kicking up dust into the little air he had. Dirt fell through the cracks and onto his face, into his mouth. Harry spluttered.

His lungs were taking in the dirt and causing him to cough erratically. He pushed the board above him as hard as he could manage. “Help!” he choked. Dream or not, he didn’t want to suffocate to death.

His coughing was growing harder. The air in the coffin was sparingly thick. He was wheezing, spitting dirt from his insides. Harry felt himself beginning to black out.

In what seemed like the next second, he was being pulled and thrown onto solid ground. He was prone, his face digging into hard dirt. There was daylight around him, and it made his vision blur. Feebly, he pushed himself up by his arms and started hacking all the dirt out of his lungs.

As he finished clearing his airways, he felt a steady hand on his back. Harry flopped himself over; his legs were still stiff, but he could shift them, and his calves felt like they were being continuously pricked by a thousand thin needles.

“Malfoy?” he coughed out, confused.

The Slytherin was kneeling in front of him with a pale face and wide eyes. He looked even more frightened than Harry was.

Harry noticed the hump of soil on the ground where he’d been pulled from—out of a buried coffin. It looked like it hadn’t been dug very deep. Malfoy’s fingers were bathed in the dirt.

“Can you breathe?” Malfoy asked him.

After hacking again and gulping for air, Harry answered, “Kind of.” He felt Malfoy lift his arm over the boy’s shoulders.

“W— Malfoy, wait—” Harry sputtered. He couldn’t handle being moved yet. “I’m not ready yet.”

“You don’t understand,” Malfoy responded in a low tone. “If we don’t move now, I may as well shove you back into that box. Someone’s clearly trying to kill us.”

Harry tried to laugh, but it hurt. “No, _you_ don’t understand. It’s just another of my bloody dreams.”

Malfoy stared at him, and then he forced Harry to stand upright. “ _Ah!_ ” he cried in pain. His legs felt like they were filled with shooting bottle rockets.

As he stumbled forward with Malfoy’s support, Harry saw that they were in the Forbidden Forest. They had been in a small clearing, well-lit by the clear sky overhead, but as Malfoy led him away toward the castle, the path turned to thickets that blocked the sun out.

“Do you have your wand?” Malfoy asked.

“No,” Harry replied. Curious, he asked, “What’s going on?”

“I’m not fully certain,” Malfoy stammered. He still sounded afraid. “Do you remember anything after Pomfrey left us in the hospital wing?”

A shiver rippled down Harry’s spine. Whatever this dream was, it felt too real, too... sinister. It didn’t help that Malfoy seemed so real. He responded, “Malfoy, this isn’t real,” if only to better persuade himself.

Malfoy shoved him off his shoulders. Fortunately, Harry was able to catch himself on his wobbling legs and stay standing.

“If this isn’t real, then why does my back still ache from carrying your sorry arse down to the first floor last night?”

“What—”

“When I woke up, my hands were tied behind my back. I had to crawl and find a stone to cut myself free with.” He held up his wrists, rubbed raw with twine, for Harry to see. The Dark Mark was just barely peeking out from under his slightly-rolled shirt sleeve.

“Then I heard something moving... like it was from underground,” he continued. “I saw the burial mound, and I don’t know why, but something told me I had to dig it up. I thought I heard your voice.”

“That’s what these dreams do,” Harry explained. “They make you think you’re in control, but really, it’s your subconscious pulling the strings.”

“Do you normally talk to me in your dreams, Potter?” Malfoy was mad at being doubted.

“No— well, once, but never as vividly as this. But I mean, think about it... Who the fuck would bury me alive in the Forbidden Forest?”

“I don’t know _who_ it is, but I know I don’t want to mess with them. That’s why I’m getting back to Hogwarts as soon as possible and going to the Headmistress. Are you coming with me?”

Harry sighed, “That’s just what the dream wants you to do.”

“So, am I just another part of your dream, then? I’m not real?”

“I don’t know if I could answer that...”

Suddenly, Malfoy shoved him backwards into a thick tree. Rough bark ground into his skin. The Slytherin held him pinned with one hand, and with the other drew his Ministry wand from his back pocket. Malfoy jabbed the wand under his jaw, pressing painfully against his throat.

“If this is just a dream,” he breathed, “Then I should be able to hex you right here, shouldn’t I?”

“Possibly,” Harry struggled to say. “But what about our handshake?”

“Don’t whine to me about the bloody handshake—you want to prove this is a dream so badly, so, tell me what spell I should use. Maybe a jelly-brain jinx would fix your mental issues.”

The tension between them was unlike anything Harry had felt since the War. Malfoy’s breathing was ragged, sweat beading on his forehead, and he looked to be on the brink of a meltdown. Harry tried to stay calm for the both of them.

“D— Don’t do it, Draco. Please... It’s the dream. It wants you to be afraid.”

Malfoy’s eyes went wide at the sound of his name. He backed off, letting go, and Harry involuntarily slid down to the ground.

He knocked his head back against the tree trunk and breathed, “You go on to the castle, then. I can’t move any more. My legs are aching.”

Malfoy breathed and then nodded. It was like he’d just snapped out of a trance. The Slytherin paced in circles, kicking the dirt on the forest floor. He heaved a great sigh and then said, “All right, here’s what we’ll do.”

He pointed his wand across the opening and at a slender black spruce. “I’ll throw a curse at that tree. If this is a dream, then fine... If it’s not, the spell won’t work, but someone will have to find us, because they’ll be coming after me to lock me up.”

“Don’t—” Harry said weakly, at the same time as Malfoy shouted: “ _Reducto!_ ”

 _CRACK!_ The tree burst into shreds; Harry shut his eyes as some of the chipped bark and pine scratched his face. A huge plume of pulp and dust filled his mouth.

Spluttering, Harry waved the dirt clear of his face and opened his eyes again. Malfoy was standing, shocked, and dropped his wand to the forest floor. The dust cleared, and in the dark, standing behind the leftover tree stump, was the Mirror.

Whatever Malfoy saw within its oily black surface, it shook him to the core, sending him stumbling backwards and falling hard to the dirt. He nearly knocked Harry over as he did, half-landing on top of him.

“ _It’s not real— It can’t be real—_ ” Malfoy was muttering to himself and shaking.

Harry pulled himself to his knees and rubbed life into his legs until he could stand. He lurched forward, his calves wobbling, and stood before the Mirror.

Blood was rushing to his ears; his mouth had fallen open, and he was staring into the black glass, seeing his own pale and terrified face staring back at him. Harry lifted his hand and touched the surface—it was sharp and cold, like ice—and his reflection’s hand met his own at the fingertips, perfectly synced.

It was as any normal reflection should be, but this was no normal mirror. Harry lifted his chin and read the engraved inscription on the frame:

_Raef tsepe edru oy tube cafru oyt on wohsi_

I show not your face but your deepest fear.

The reflection folded its cold fingers into a tight grip around Harry’s knuckles and pulled.

Harry woke in a sweat and shot up in his bed. Ripping off the white hospital covers tucked around him, he threw the sheets to the floor and attempted to swing his legs over the side. However, he was still half-paralyzed, so instead of moving his legs, he overexerted his upper half and fell to the cold tile floor with a _smack_.

“ _Harry!_ ” Hermione cried. From near the doors, she came running toward him where he lay pathetic and prone upon the floor. His face was pressed at a weird angle on the tiles, forcing him to breathe with his mouth open and tongue hanging out until Hermione and Ron could turn him over.

Between the two of them, they managed to lift Harry back onto his bed with a levitation spell. Hermione placed her hand on his forehead. “You poor thing... We’ve all been worried sick ever since yesterday morning... Ron and I went to ask you to breakfast, and you weren’t there... Oh, Harry.”

She sat down in a chair at his bedside and wiped a tear from her eye. Ron sat in another chair beside her. They both looked tired with worry. After lightly brushing his hair with her fingers, Hermione moved her hand to Harry’s and gripped it softly.

“Ginny was here earlier, with Neville. They just ran out to bring us all some snacks from the kitchens,” she told him.

Harry shut his eyes. “How long have I been out? What day is it?”

Ron shifted forward in his seat, resting his arms on his knees. He answered, “It’s Saturday, around two in the afternoon. You’ve been in and out ever since Friday. What’s the last thing you can remember, mate?”

Harry wanted to rub his face—he felt a headache coming on—but his arm was now too sore to reach all the way. He sighed, “Me and Malfoy were—” Suddenly, he remembered why he had woken up in such a shock. He tried to sit up, but only fell back against the pillows.

“Where is Malfoy?” he asked them.

Hermione blinked. “They let him go on Friday, after we’d gotten here.”

“Let him go? Where is he now?”

“In his dorm, I suppose,” she shrugged.

“What is it, Harry?” Ron asked. “Did he have something to do with this?”

“No... No. I think he’s a target.”

Hermione leaned forward and asked in a hushed tone, “Harry, is it true you think someone’s broken into the castle?”

“Well, I didn’t petrify myself, did I? ...Did Pomfrey or someone fill you in?”

Ron swung his arm behind Hermione. “Yeah, they were saying Malfoy helped carry you down here. Is that for real?”

“Yeah— I’ll tell you guys everything, just... give me some time to collect myself. And I mean _everything_.” That last dream had been the final straw—he was beginning to confuse reality with his dreams, and he could no longer get away with hiding it from his friends. He was going to need all the help he could get.

~~~

“And... I’m sorry I didn’t tell you all of this sooner. I didn’t want any of you to worry about me,” Harry said. He was lying with his back against the wall, a pillow propping the small of his back. Ron had helped him into the position after Ginny and Neville returned.

Harry sipped the last remnants of his pumpkin juice and set the goblet aside on his bedside table. Orange light was streaming through the tall glass windows on the opposite wall and bathing them all in the glow, catching a glint on Harry’s glasses.

Ron bent forward in his seat and roughly rubbed his face. He looked at Harry uncertainly and asked, “Malfoy really said all that to you?”

“He did,” Harry confirmed. He had told them of Malfoy’s confession regarding their childhood rivalry, and about how the Slytherin had apologized and wanted to start over on their... friendship? Acquaintanceship? Whatever it could be called.

“He’s trying to get into your head, Harry,” Ginny said. She sat with her arms crossed and a frown on her face. “He’s _exactly_ like Parkinson—all they care about is saving their own reputation. At the end of the day, they’re always going to be Slytherins first... cowardly and selfish.”

Harry frowned. Though he had yet to see the full extent of Malfoy’s intentions, he thought the Slytherin’s recent actions were far from cowardly. It would’ve been so easy to just leave Harry paralyzed on the classroom floor, and if the event had happened even a couple weeks ago, that’s probably exactly what would have happened.

“Let’s just forget about Malfoy for a minute,” Hermione suggested. “Harry, you need to get these dreams under control. Pomfrey can probably prescribe you some dreamless sleep.”

“Yeah, that might help. But what about the Mirror?”

“Well, that’s obvious—I’m going to Flitwick first thing once our Advanced Charms is finished on Monday. It’s what you should have done _weeks_ ago. Professor Flitwick has already said he’s been working on deconstructing the mirror’s magic. If anyone can figure out what’s wrong with it, he can.”

“I have to say...” Neville said nervously, wringing his hands between his knees. “I feel slightly responsible, since I’m the one who showed it to you over the summer.”

“It’s not your fault, Neville. I’d already had the first dream about it before then.”

“And that’s the part that worries me most...” Hermione said.

Harry shook his head. “Forget all that. How about the fact the castle’s been invaded?”

At that, all four of his friends, seated at his bedside, exchanged uncomfortable glances. Ron leaned forward. “Mate, it’s not that we don’t want to believe you, but... the whole school’s been talking about it ever since yesterday. McGonagall had the staff search the entire castle, and the grounds. They didn’t find anything. There are already rumors—”

“What rumors?” Harry demanded.

Ron sighed. “A bunch of people think you had something to do with that prank on the Slytherins, and now they think the Slytherins are getting back at you. When people hear you say there’s an evil intruder running around the castle, they’ll think you’re mad.”

“That’s bollocks,” Harry retorted.

“But what if there’s some truth to it?” Ginny said. “No one knows yet who sent those letters, but is it so hard to believe one of the Slytherins cursed you as an attempt at revenge? I mean, Harry... Malfoy was _with_ you when it happened. What if it was set up?”

“But—”

“You didn’t see your attacker, right?”

“No, I didn’t, but I know it wasn’t a student. Students don’t know how to use advanced dark curses like this.”

“ _Some_ of them might, especially if they knew the Death Eaters quite well...”

“What are you suggesting?”

Ron finished for her, “Mate, it could have been Parkinson.”

Ginny continued, “Just _think_ about it, Harry. She’s been one of Malfoy’s closest allies for years; she would have been privy to that kind of information, like learning how to perform curses...”

Harry leaned further into his pillow. It was possible—he wouldn’t outright deny it. But he refused to believe that Malfoy had any part of it, even if the attacker was Parkinson. After all, they could have finished him off right there if they’d wanted to; he was left completely vulnerable by his paralyzed legs. But Malfoy carried him all the way to the hospital wing.

He looked each of them in the eyes. “You all think this?” he asked.

Ron and Ginny seemed in clear agreement. Hermione looked unwilling to commit to a side, and Neville only said, “Whatever you think is the truth, Harry, I’ll stick with it. You haven’t steered us wrong yet.”

From across the wing, Madam Pomfrey was bustling toward his bed with a tray; it was laden with two large potion mugs. The matron cleared off his bedside table with a flick of her wand and then set the tray upon it.

“There you are,” she said. “Fortunately for you, Mr. Potter, you won’t need a full draught of the Mandrake brew. We had some juice still in storage due to the last pandemic. Once you’ve drank it, it’ll need to set in for about a day to work through your system. I’ve put out a sleeping potion, too, and I suggest you take it.”

After she left, his friends decided they should begin to take their leave, too, so he could drink his potions and get some sleep. Hermione was the last to leave him, giving his hand a supportive squeeze and telling him, “It’ll all work out, Harry. Get some rest.”

He drank down the Mandrake juice first; it was disgusting, tasting like chalk and carrots. Then, he took his dreamless sleep potion and instantly fell against his pillow, into deep slumber.

~~~

Draco had just woken, panting and covered in a cold sweat, from his bed in the boys’ dormitories. He pushed himself up and grabbed the wristwatch off his dresser—it was nearly two o’clock on Saturday afternoon.

He hardly even remembered falling asleep; ever since Thursday night’s events, he’d had fitful sleep and was taking naps whenever he could get them. Feeling stuffy, he kicked off his green and silver covers and walked out of his suite to the showers.

The room was deserted. As he stepped inside, the cold stone felt relieving against his skin. He went straight to the sink and ran his face under the water until his mind had cleared.

After wiping the droplets off with his hands, he lifted his face to the mirror. His eyes went wide upon seeing his own reflection, and it startled him enough to make him stumble back. Chest shaking, he stood still until he was calm again, and then he held his own gaze in the glass— _It’s only your reflection_ , he told himself. There was nothing unusual about it.

Unconsciously, Draco grabbed his wrist and smoothed his thumb along the skin, imagining he’d felt it rubbed raw by twine. _It was only a dream_ , he continued in thought. _It’s not real_.


	10. Battle of the Houses

“All right, Mr. Potter, you’re free to go. Take it slow for the first few days and drink your potions every night,” Madam Pomfrey instructed.

Harry stood from the hospital bed without any assistance. The Mandrake juice had run its course and now he was free to move as he pleased, though his joints were still a little stiff from his lack of exercise.

He went straight to the marble stairs just in time for the start of Monday night’s dinner. After bumbling down the staircase, his knees creaking the whole way, he turned into the Great Hall and headed for the Gryffindor table.

Already, it was clear that people were talking. Now that the novelty of a new year was waning, the students were eager for drama—and drama they got, with their precious Savior having been petrified in the halls of the school. Heads were swiveling around to look at him as he blundered in on his newly healed limbs.

Harry ducked his head and slid into his usual seat between Ginny and Neville. The feast was already set—roasted turkey, potatoes, zucchini and tomatoes, and rolls with cinnamon butter. Harry filled his plate and asked, “Any news?”

As he did, he caught Malfoy’s eye from across the hall. Harry stared, trying his best to portray an expression that asked, _What the bloody hell have you been doing for three days?_ , but at best it was just a slightly raised eyebrow.

Malfoy returned his gaze with one of confusion and then shook his head. Harry imagined he was saying: _Don’t ask_. Parkinson, sitting across from Malfoy and probably wondering what the motion was all about, turned in her seat to look around at Harry.

“Well, I spoke with Professor Flitwick,” Hermione started. She and Ron were sitting with their backs to the Slytherins, and thus blissfully unaware of Harry’s attempted mute conversation.

Harry moved his focus back to the Gryffindors. “How’d that go?” he asked and then popped a small potato into his mouth.

“He was very interested in your predicament. While he thinks it’s possible that the Mirror might show its viewer as being absent from the reflection, there would still be _something_ shown. For instance, it might show whatever you imagine a world without you would look like—though you have to admit, that would be fairly bleak.”

Harry shrugged. “Technically, I think Neville would’ve been the Chosen One, then.”

“That _is_ bleak,” Neville said, horrified.

“And if the reflection was completely empty, like yours is,” Hermione continued, “Then what could that mean? You wish nothing existed? Honestly, it’s difficult to comprehend. I’ll be interested to see what Flitwick figures out.”

“Surely you aren’t going to let him get away with the discovery?” Harry joked.

Ron replied, “No, she’s already been to the library three times today.”

Harry laughed along with them, while Hermione playfully shrugged and smiled into her pumpkin juice. The laughter was so full that they didn’t even hear the approaching charm until it landed directly on their table.

It was like a paper bird charm, though it was larger than the birds Hermione had crafted, and of a different species altogether: it was a lion. The thing was delicately crafted, with a full mane of clipped edges, and made of all white paper. It even vocalized a squeaky roar.

“It’s cute,” Ginny remarked, staring down at the little paper lion. It had landed almost directly in front of Harry and stood on his uneaten tomatoes.

“Who do you think—” Harry was about to ask before the paper lion comically inflated and then exploded.

From out of the small blast, a handful of tiny fireworks shot into the air above the Gryffindors. The sparks were colored green and silver, and fell back, showering over their heads. Neville’s robes caught on fire by his shoulder, and Harry had to help pat the flames out.

A ripple of laughter echoed toward them from the Slytherin table, centering around the seventh-year students.

“Do y’know what that was?” Ron said seriously. “It was a mark of victory.”

A lion, the regal mascot of Gryffindor, being cartoonishly imploded with the fireworks of Slytherin’s colors—the message was clear, and perfectly timed with Harry’s return from the hospital.

“I told you it was them,” Ginny added. “Right now, Slytherin thinks they’re playing against us, and they’re winning.”

“Not for long,” Dean replied with a grin. He exchanged one quick, conspiring look with Seamus, and in an instant the two of them were flicking their wands.

Filch, who had just come running up the hall in-between the tables, was nearly caught in the blast of their combined spell as he shouted, “Who’s got those fireworks?!”

At the Slytherin table, a nearly untouched and glistening roasted turkey grew to the size of a large pumpkin and exploded. It splattered juice, meat, and bone in a large radius amongst the seventh-years, catching both Zabini and Greengrass in the process.

This sent nearly the whole hall (minus the Slytherins, of course) into a fit. Harry watched as Greengrass turned in her seat, spitting turkey out of her mouth. She was absolutely covered in grease, staining her perfectly pressed white shirt, and ruining her make-up and hair. Across from her, Zabini stood from his seat in a rage; his tie was askew and robes covered in shreds of turkey. He spat a full bone out of his mouth.

Dean and Seamus high-fived. Filch, unaware, was running over to the Slytherin table to reprimand them for exploding a turkey and making a mess on his clean floor. Mrs. Norris jumped onto the table and began licking the grease, only making the students laugh even harder.

Harry, his face still caught in an uncontrollable grin, looked to Malfoy. Although he’d avoided the blast, due to the wide berth he and Parkinson always kept from Zabini, Greengrass, and their underclassmen, he didn’t look happy about the events.

The Great Hall was filled with screaming laughter from all around them. Draco grimaced as he flicked a stray greasy bone away from his elbow. Across from him, Pansy was trying to keep her head down and her mouth shut, after having involuntarily laughed at the sight of Daphne and Blaise covered in turkey goo.

Zabini roughly stood up from the table and tried in vain to wipe his robes clean. He drew his hands away, now covered in grease, and shook them furiously. Grease flecks flew off his fingers, hitting the seventh-years like bullets.

Pansy couldn’t help it—a fluttering giggle escaped between her fingers, clasped over her mouth. It was loud enough for Zabini to hear. He fixed his necktie and marched over to them, leaning threateningly over Draco.

Draco flinched away from him; the stench was incredible. Pansy slowly met Blaise’s furious gaze and then unclasped her hands.

“I’m sorry, Blaise, dear. But don’t be cross with us—we didn’t explode your dinner.”

Zabini sneered. “You may as well have had something to do with it, with the way you two keep meddling with the Gryffindors.” He spat the name.

He flicked his hands again, sending a speck of grease to Draco’s lips. He nearly gagged.

Zabini continued in his enraged monotone, “You want to know what I think? You’re both low-class gossips and don’t deserve a drop of your bloodlines. Your ancestors must be ashamed.”

Draco spat back, “That’s rich coming from you, Blaise. What number stepfather are you on now? I can’t imagine the man has many days left with your family.”

Zabini leaned further over him; Draco had to stop himself from plugging his nose. The boy said, “Watch your back, Malfoy. As far as the rest of us are concerned, you and your precious boyfriend Potter should’ve both been petrified—for good.”

With that, he walked out of the Great Hall, each step making a loud sticking sound against the floor. It didn’t take long for the other stricken Slytherins to follow, as Filch was yelling at all of them to go clean themselves up.

After Daphne had run out, Pansy turned back to Draco and asked, “Do you think one of them attacked Potter?”

“Blaise is all talk,” he answered. He wouldn’t even consider Daphne, because really, that was more ridiculous than the idea that someone had broken into the castle.

“No,” he continued, “I think it must have been one of the underclassmen.”

Pansy looked down the table. “Who?” she asked.

“I don’t know, Pans. But if the year keeps going like this, we may find out soon enough.”

~~~

After dinner, Harry had only waited about half an hour on the common room couch before giving up on trying to catch up on his homework. He went straight to Malfoy’s door and knocked. And knocked, again and again in quicker succession, until the door finally pulled open.

“What in the world is your problem?” Malfoy asked, bewildered to see him on the Slytherins’ floor.

“I was thinking we could head to the grounds a bit early. Set up the wards,” Harry answered.

“Didn’t McGonagall tell you? Since you were petrified and laid up at the hospital, she’s given us off until Thursday.”

“Thursday?” Harry asked, scandalized. Did McGonagall think he couldn’t handle it? “No, I feel fine. Actually, I kind of need the exercise. I’ve been stiff all day.”

“You’re serious?” Malfoy asked. “You’re choosing to go to detention when you don’t have to?”

Harry nodded, not understanding how this was an issue. “You agreed to this, remember? We’re catching this bastard.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’ll meet you downstairs in two minutes.”

On their way to the grand staircase, Harry suggested stopping off on the third floor to scope it out for the intruder. Malfoy told him he was mental if he thought the attacker would just hang around the scene of the crime all week. So, Harry gave up and they continued to the ground floor.

They marched onto the grounds just after dusk. The air was chill, but the sky hadn’t turned to night yet, so they used the light to check the stables. All the animals were accounted for, meaning either Hagrid had been wrangling them up while Harry was gone, or they hadn’t been escaping.

As if on cue, the half-giant strolled up to them from his garden. “Harry, how are yeh feelin’?”

“All right, thanks. Have the animals been any trouble?”

“Same as ever, I’m afraid,” he answered. “Now, don’ tell me you two are plannin’ on watching ‘em tonight.”

“We are,” Malfoy answered with displeasure.

Hagrid smiled. “Well then, I’ll have ta put on some tea. Tonight’s the full moon, yeh know, so stay sharp, boys.”

Malfoy gulped. “The full moon?” he whined and looked up to the sky. Sure enough, the moon was easily visible high over the grounds, and perfectly round.

Harry patted the boy on his back. “Scared, Malfoy?” he asked in a mocking tone.

“You wish.” Malfoy shoved him back with a sharp elbow to his chest.

Harry wheezed. “All right, then come on and watch me set the wards. You can make suggestions. Got any anti-petrification spells up your sleeves?”

“Out of luck,” Malfoy drawled. He walked behind Harry toward the outpost.

In the end, Harry decided to just use the same three enchantments Hermione had shown him, since he couldn’t think of anything else to add. He even kept the intruder charm despite its horrible-sounding alarm.

By nine, they were set up at the outpost, with two mugs of Hagrid’s cinnamon and honey tea. This time, Harry made sure to drink it slow and savor it.

He looked at Malfoy from the corner of his eye as he drank and began, “So, Zabini?”

“What about him?”

“The look on his face at dinner... You have to admit, that was pretty good.”

Malfoy snorted. He looked Harry in the eyes. “Which one of your Gryffindors blew up the turkey?”

Harry sipped thoughtfully. “How do I know you aren’t going to run and tell McGonagall?”

“Because I fucking hate Blaise Zabini.”

“Oh. Really?”

“And before you ask, no, I don’t know who sent the fireworks.”

“Then it doesn’t really seem like a fair exchange of information, does it?”

“Good for you, Potter,” Malfoy said and shut his eyes as he drank tea. “You’re learning. Must be my shining presence.”

Harry realized this would be his way in to asking all the questions he’d been harboring since waking up on Saturday. He asked, “And what exactly was your _shining presence_ doing all weekend while I was petrified?”

“What do you think? Some of us actually do our homework, you know.”

Harry looked affronted. “So you were too busy to stop by? What if the attacker had come back to finish the job? Then you’d have been blissfully unaware, writing your Potions essay, while I was dead in the hospital wing.”

Malfoy cackled. “Holy hell, Potter, are you actually _hurt_ that I wasn’t crying at your bedside all weekend? Who do you think I am?”

“A git,” Harry retorted. “You know, though, Malfoy... It’s often expected that if someone’s been half-paralyzed, their friends might come and check on them now and again.”

Malfoy stared at him. “We’re not friends,” he said, saying it as if he thought he might be hallucinating.

“Then what are we? Detention partners?”

Malfoy leaned back in his seat. “Sure. But don’t ever call it that again.”

“Detention buddies?”

“Shut up.”

“Dodo-busters.”

“I’ll fucking kill you myself if that person who petrified you doesn’t.”

Harry smiled. He looked out across the clearing, where they had already loosed the glowbugs for the night. The bugs were floating around without a care, twinkling like fireflies.

He shut his eyes. He’d been debating whether to bring up his last dream, afraid that Malfoy would be disturbed by how present he’d been in Harry’s dream. He might be mad that Harry dreamt of him tied up in the forest, especially since too many of his dreams were becoming oddly prescient.

No, it would be better if Malfoy didn’t know about the dream at all.

“Okay,” Harry started, “At least tell me you’ve done some research over the weekend. Do you know anything new about the intruder?”

“Nope,” Malfoy answered. “All I can tell you is no one believes you.”

“So I’ve heard,” Harry huffed. “What do _you_ think?”

He shrugged. “It was probably an underclassman.”

“What kind of underclassman knows petrification curses?”

Malfoy sipped his tea. “I’m sure there are some... of a certain flavor.”

“Oh my God, you sound like Ginny,” Harry said aghast.

Malfoy spluttered. “Don’t compare me to your girlfriend, Potter.”

Oh, how quickly it had all happened: getting beaten with a bludger, being dumped, and then his petrification was the cherry on top. Even after defeating the greatest dark wizard of all time, Harry just couldn’t win.

“Actually, she dumped me,” Harry said rather pathetically.

He couldn’t believe it—Malfoy spluttered his tea _again_. After getting control on his coughs, Malfoy asked incredulously, “The She-Weasel dumped _Our Savior?_ ”

“Don’t call her that,” Harry frowned. “But yes. And it’s not like she was with me because of status, Malfoy.”

“Clearly,” he replied. “Well, I have to admit, now I feel a little sorry for you. Dumped _and_ petrified.”

“Tell me about it. And what, you didn’t feel sorry for me already when I was literally paralyzed?”

The Slytherin hummed in thought. “I suppose you did look pretty pathetic.”

“Thanks.” Harry rubbed his forehead; he was growing a headache from Malfoy’s constant jabs. Then, he thought of something. “Hey, maybe I should give you friendship lessons. Like, How Not to Be a Git 101?”

Malfoy smirked. “There you go with that ‘friend’ thing again. Who gave you that idea?”

“Um, you, when you shook my hand. Remember the handshake?”

“Don’t whine to me about the bloody handshake—” Malfoy snapped his mouth shut. He looked almost... afraid.

Harry was staring at him, and his blood had started pulsing. Real-Malfoy had just said the same line, with the same inflection, as his Dream-Malfoy had. Were his dreams once again leaking out into reality, or did Malfoy somehow know something? Harry was about to open his mouth, and ask Malfoy about it, when the wards collapsed.

Harry fell to the ground, clutching his ears. Magical sparks rained upon them as the alarm wailed in their heads. “ _Finite incantatum!_ ” he shouted.

He pushed up and was in the process of telling Malfoy to run to the stables when the Slytherin roughly grabbed his left arm. Harry looked up. The boy’s eyes were wide and he was pointing; Harry followed his gaze across the clearing.

The first thing he noticed was that the glowbugs were gone; everything was nearly pitch black against the dark blue night sky. Finally, he saw what Malfoy was trying to warn him of. Across the clearing, coming toward them from the western castle wall, was a dark figure.

It was fairly tall and dressed in black robes; Harry guessed if it was a student, they would be a sixth or seventh-year. The cloaked figure did not have its arms raised or appear to be in any hurry, but all the same Harry shivered with the fear that this person held malevolent intent.

In one quick motion, Harry drew his wand and shot up from the ground. He didn’t even hear Malfoy’s apprehensive shout as he ran across the grounds. Beyond the clearing, the mystery person had stopped and raised their hands.

Apparently, Malfoy had run after him, because as Harry came to an abrupt halt, the Slytherin ran into his back. Harry was squinting to analyze the person ahead of them; from what he could tell, they held no wand. Still, it was nearing ten o’clock and no one was allowed on the grounds so late. At the very least, the person was suspicious.

In that moment, Harry realized he could figure out exactly who it was. “Malfoy,” he whispered, “Reach into my bag and get the parchment out.”

He felt shuffling at his side as Malfoy followed through and handed him the map. Harry kept his eyes trained on the person as he unfolded the parchment. Both he and Malfoy were scarcely daring to breathe.

At the same time as Harry lifted his wand to the map, the figure began to move; it wasn’t coming toward them, but it wasn’t moving away either. The person was shaking in place. Suddenly, without warning, the robes shuddered and fell to the ground.

Malfoy’s terrified fingers were digging into Harry’s skin—the Slytherin was nearly holding him. Both of them were frozen in shock. It was as if the person had disappeared.

Harry ran across the grounds. Malfoy was yelling at him about traps, but he didn’t care—he _had_ to see what was there. He nearly slipped as he skidded to a halt on the grass. The robes were left vacant on the ground; he picked them up. They were definitely school robes, though there was no indication of which House the owner belonged to.

As Malfoy came up from behind, Harry was looking at the map. There were only two names at the spot—Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy.

“Fuck!” he exclaimed.

Then, as they stood baffled by the encounter, a _Pop!_ sounded from behind them. The dodos had escaped again.

Harry sighed and pocketed his map. “Shall we go get the broom?” he asked.

“Fuck that,” Malfoy replied. “We should be going to McGonagall and telling her what we just saw.”

Initially, Harry had thought the same, but he quickly realized they would sound like nutcases. The Headmistress, and the school at large, thought Harry was batty for saying the school was invaded. If he came running with a story about a disappearing cloaked figure, they might lock him away. Even with Malfoy to back up his claims, no one would trust the crazy person and his ex-Death Eater detention partner.

“She won’t believe us, Malfoy.”

“Then what do we do? If we stay out here, we might get hexed. I can’t defend myself.”

“I know...” They were both frustrated. So many things were going wrong, and they were no closer to an explanation. “We can at least get the firedrakes. You stay on the broom and I’ll stand guard on the grounds.”

Together, they only managed to return three firedrakes to the stables before giving up. They were both on edge, and it was making it nearly impossible for Harry to immobilize the animals, since his hand was wobbling badly.

After locking the third one in, they agreed to call it a night. All the way to the fourth floor, they were jumpy—looking over their shoulders and around corners for the slippery figure. By the time they made it to the common room, both of them were exhausted from anxiety.

Harry collapsed onto the couch, with Malfoy following him. The Slytherin nearly fell onto him; he landed squarely against his side, and rather than move over, Malfoy gave up and laid his head on Harry’s shoulder with a sigh. This was definitely getting into ‘friends’ territory, Harry thought, but he didn’t say anything lest he poke the sleeping dragon.

“Draco...?” From across the room, Parkinson’s weak voice punctured his thoughts.

The girl had been sitting on the dark sill of the reading window, though Harry hadn’t noticed when he came in. She stood and walked into the light, looking down at Malfoy curiously. The blond snapped his eyes up to her.

“Not now, Pansy.”

She stopped. Then she said, with biting sarcasm, “Oh, I’m sorry, am I interrupting something?” She glanced between Harry and Malfoy, making note of their close positions.

Suddenly, Malfoy sat up and shoved him to the side. Harry landed on the couch cushion with an “ _Oof!_ ” The Slytherin boy dusted off his hands and got off the couch.

Parkinson, after sparing one lingering and curious glance at Harry, ran off after Malfoy, who’d disappeared to the boys’ dormitory.

Harry allowed himself to lie on the couch a bit longer before going up to his room. His ego, much like his shoulder, was bruised.

~~~

For the first time in days, Harry woke to the agitated tweeting of his paper birds. They were noisy and restless, and rather than cast yet another silencing charm on the little birds, he decided to open the cage.

After returning from a quick hot shower, Harry shut his door and saw that the birds were already much calmer. They fluttered in circles around his small suite as he changed into fresh clothes and his school robes.

The robin, baby blue with a bright orange chest, swooped down upon the trunk at the foot of Harry’s bed. It sat still there, chirping loudly, until he kneeled on the floor and opened the trunk.

His eyebrows rose and he hummed. Inside the trunk, set on top of his other things, was the white giftbox Ginny had given him on his birthday. He stood, taking the box with him, and sat on the bed to open it.

From the box, Harry unfurled the intricately woven Weazawig scarf; it sparkled with golden glitter under the crisp morning light that was streaming through his window. It still looked good as new. Harry wondered if the magical weave could have saved him from a weekend of petrification had he only worn it sooner.

The paper robin landed on his finger and gazed at him with its beady black paper-cut eyes. Harry smiled and said to it, “I think you’re right. I should’ve unpacked this earlier.”

He rolled it into what he was beginning to think of as his detention bag—a simple dragonhide satchel he’d bought for himself at Diagon Alley in preparation for eighth year. It had been a pricy but nonetheless gorgeous purchase; the scales glinted in light like burnt ruby.

After checking the time, Harry realized he was dragging and losing precious seconds for lunch. Since he had a free period on Tuesday mornings, he’d allowed himself to sleep in, but now he was looking at only twenty minutes to get to the Great Hall and eat before Herbology class. He tossed his satchel onto his pillow and shuffled out to the common room.

Harry nearly ran out of the tower, stumbling over the still-rising stone stairs as he did, and gave a quick greeting to the portrait of Cynthia Buchanan as he turned left down the corridor. Then, almost as quickly as he had started, he came to a skidding halt and spun around, because he had just heard a scream.

Harry ran to the end of the hall and turned toward the West Tower courtyard. Immediately as he came around the bend, he saw a cluster of students standing in the entranceway. Their noise grew louder as he ran ahead—they appeared to all be underclassmen, possibly fifth and sixth-years, and sounded alarmed. They were staring at something in the courtyard.

“Get back!” Harry demanded as he pushed through the crowd. He saw that a student was lying still on the grass, and there were even more students clustered around the boy.

“Was he attacked?” Harry nearly shouted, panting, as he came to the boy’s side. The student was a Ravenclaw, tall and thin with a head of black hair. The boy was breathing, though it was ragged, and his face was unnaturally pale. Harry’s eyes moved down and saw the Ravenclaw was clutching something at his chest.

The surrounding underclassmen were all terrified of Harry, either due to his shout or because he was the Chosen One. Another Ravenclaw, a girl with chestnut hair wrapped into a ponytail, stepped forward.

“He’s hurt badly,” she answered, “But I don’t know what caused it.”

Harry bent down beside the boy and softly patted his cheek—the boy was dangerously lethargic and could barely keep his eyes open. “Hey,” Harry said, trying to shake him awake, “Can you tell me your name?”

“His name is Stewart,” another of the Ravenclaws answered. “We’ve all been coming here to hang out before classes. One minute he was perfectly normal, then the next... he was on the ground.”

Harry continued in his attempt to keep the boy awake, saying, “All right, Stewart, can you tell us what happened to you?”

The boy moaned in pain. Fearing the worst, Harry carefully took the boy’s hand into his own and lifted it from his chest. The whole area was covered in blood. Above him, one of the girls shrieked at the sight and ran.

Harry looked up and shouted, “Has anyone tried to help him?!” He guessed that Stewart was very nearly close to passing out if not worse, and the boy’s own friends seemed to be doing nothing but standing and looking at the poor boy.

The Ravenclaw girl answered again, “Yes, one of our friends has gone to find a teacher.”

“A teacher—” Harry muttered. Fuck, what good was it going to do Stewart if it took that long? He put his arms under the Ravenclaw and tested his weight—he wasn’t very heavy, but the job of carrying him wouldn’t be simple with his gangly height. And Harry didn’t think he could pull off the spellwork necessary to move him. Quickly thinking, Harry threw his wand up and sent a Patronus to Madam Pomfrey to warn her. The students clogging the courtyard entrance parted at the sight of the blue stag running toward them.

“We’ll need to lift him,” Harry instructed. “Who can help?”

“It might not be a good idea,” argued a Ravenclaw boy. “I come from a family of Healers. One of the first things you learn is to not move the person in case something shifts. We need to wait for a professional.”

“He might not have _time_ to wait!” The Ravenclaws were shocked to silence by Harry’s anger.

From the subdued quiet came a clear drawl far across the courtyard: “I’ll do it.” The voice made some of the students run in fear back to the castle, while the remaining backed away as the Slytherin drew closer.

Harry let a sigh escape him. He had never been so relieved to see Draco Malfoy in his life. Parkinson was trailing behind him with parchment and a quill still held in her shaking hands; presumably, the two of them had just been in the Owlery and were walking back to class.

“I’ll take his head,” Harry told him as Malfoy knelt down on the grass. “We need to keep pressure on his wound.”

One of the braver Ravenclaws, a thickset sixth-year boy, stepped forward and offered to help. Between the three of them, they lifted Stewart off the grass. He whimpered painfully as they did, but for the most part, he was still stable.

The chestnut-haired girl ran in front of them to help clear the path.

“Did you see anything before he fell?” Harry asked the Ravenclaw boy who was assisting them as they walked.

The boy shook his head. “I wasn’t even out here when it happened. I only heard the screams.”

Harry inwardly raged. Of course it worked out that none of the people who were actually present for the attack were interested in helping. Apparently, Hogwarts students could fight in a battle against the Dark Army but didn’t know the first thing about helping their fellow peers.

By the time they were down to the end of the fourth-floor corridor, the initial student who’d been sent for help was rushing toward them with Professor Flitwick in tow. The professor took over from there, using a levitation spell to quickly and safely transport Stewart down the stairs.

Harry turned to the Ravenclaw boy and shook his hand. “Hey, thanks for your help.” Since the boy didn’t know anything else of the attack, Harry had no issue letting him go.

“So,” Malfoy started as they walked down to the first floor together, “What was it this time?”

“Dunno,” Harry replied. “Not a single one of the underclassmen seemed to know anything. They’re bloody useless. No offense.” He looked awkwardly at the chestnut-haired girl, who was going with them to the Hospital to help answer questions.

“None taken,” she shrugged. “My name is Ashley, by the way. Of course, I already know yours...” Then, she asked him, “Is it true that you were petrified?”

“Partially.”

“...Partially true?”

“No, I mean I was partially petrified,” he clarified. “Couldn’t move my legs at all.”

“That’s horrible. Do you think whoever attacked you could have attacked Stewart too?”

“I’d bet on it,” Harry answered. Although, he was surprised that the attacker would be so bold as to go at a student during lunch on a weekday, in a courtyard full of other students.

“What exactly has this Stewart done to make himself a target, though?” Malfoy asked. He had voiced Harry’s own inward skepticism. What made a random fifth-year Ravenclaw stand out as a victim, and why was he bleeding?

Harry supposed they would get their answers once Stewart was healed and lucid. As they stepped off to the first floor, Malfoy announced he would be parting ways there. “Unlike you, I can’t afford to miss class,” he said to Harry.

“See you at detention,” Harry responded. Although he had wanted to say ‘See you at detention, _partner_ ,’ he’d rather not be decked. Especially in front of an underclassman.

Ashley, following Harry through the open Hospital doors, asked him, “Are you two really working together now? I know Professor McGonagall said the eighth-years would be ‘leading the way,’ but...” She looked sheepish. “I remember in my first year when he made those ‘Potter Stinks’ badges. ...I’m ashamed to say I wore one. Sorry.”

Harry chuckled, “Yes, I remember. Don’t worry about it.” Then, he gulped harshly at the memory of Cedric. He rushed forward to the hospital beds.

Madam Pomfrey was already hard at work patching the poor Ravenclaw up. Already, there were emptied potion bottles set on his bedside table, and the look on Stewart’s face was much calmer than only minutes prior.

Harry sat and listened patiently while Ashley explained to Pomfrey all the events leading up to Stewart Ackerley’s fall in the courtyard. Apparently, the fifth-year Ravenclaws were a very tightknit group and often hung out at the West Tower’s courtyard, though Stewart was a bit of an outlier.

Ashley described the boy as reclusive and skittish, and she remarked that he’d been increasingly nervous over the past few weeks. Much to Harry’s surprise, the eighth-year Gryffindors weren’t the only ones being targeted by Slytherin pranks lately. According to Ashley, the fifth-year Ravenclaws and Slytherins were having a full-on row.

“We’d never had many problems with them before... well, before last year,” Ashley explained. “I’m still friends with some of them. But there are three boys in particular—Graham, Jude, and Malcolm—who keep bugging Stewart every chance they get.”

Pomfrey appeared displeased to now be so privy to fifteen-year-olds’ drama, but she asked dutifully, “Do you know why they were bothering him?”

Ashley shook her head. “No. Although, I think it could be important to mention... Stewart is halfblood. His mother is a muggle, and he’s very attached to her family,” she said in a low tone.

 _Could it really be that simple?_ , Harry wondered. Another case of blood politics, leading to actual spilt blood. He leaned and looked over at the Ravenclaw boy; he was sleeping peacefully, his chest wrapped tightly in bandages. Harry could see clearly now that the injury had been dangerously near the boy’s heart. He was lucky to have survived at all.

It was then that Harry realized if he had only brought his satchel with him to lunch, he could have used the scarf Hagrid gave him to save the boy minutes of agony. _Fuck_ , Harry thought. He would need to be better prepared. There was no telling what was still to come.

That night, Harry was eager to get out onto the grounds. It was nearing eight-thirty; he’d already had dinner, and now he was up in his room, fully dressed in his cloak, and pacing nervously in his small confinement. The birds were angrily tweeting at him.

Finally, he could take no more. Harry grabbed his satchel off the bed and took off down to Malfoy’s door. The Slytherin was much quicker to answer this time, possibly expecting Harry’s early arrival.

On their way down the grand staircase together, Harry caught him up on the Ravenclaw situation.

“I know Graham Pritchard well enough,” Malfoy commented as they passed through the entrance hall. “He’d definitely fit the type to bully Ackerley, though I don’t know if he would go so far as to stab him. Most Slytherins are only interested in pranks of wit.”

“What about Goyle?” Harry asked.

“That was just because they didn’t have anywhere else to put him. Can you imagine if he’d been in Hufflepuff? I’d have disowned him.”

Harry pushed the doors open. “Haven’t you already disowned him? ...Or am I reading you wrong?”

Malfoy frowned. “It doesn’t really matter anymore. He’s in Azkaban now.”

A cold front had come in. As they walked toward the slope, Harry wrapped himself tightly in his cloak. He was disappointed that Malfoy was still so closed off with him; he wanted to see more of that Malfoy he’d met the night he showed him the Mirror.

Harry, frustrated, huffed a hot breath into the cold air. He said, “I was hoping things would be different this year.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, no pranks or attacks on students... No visions or nightmares... Less drama in general. About the only good thing that’s come out of it is these detentions.”

Malfoy laughed, “How does that work out?”

They had arrived at the stables—everything was in place. Harry dropped his satchel to the ground and was preparing to set the wards. He turned to Malfoy and said, “Well, it’s not like you and me would’ve ever talked otherwise. You can laugh all you want, but I like the company.”

Whatever Malfoy’s reaction was—he was probably thinking of all the ways to mock him with this confession—Harry didn’t know, because he had his back to the Slytherin while he placed the wards’ enchantments. As he finished setting the intruder alarm, he felt a hand land on his shoulder.

“I’ve... also enjoyed it,” he heard Malfoy say. “Even with a potential killer on the loose,” he added with a smirk as Harry turned toward him, smiling back.

Then, Malfoy swiftly yanked Harry’s arm tightly behind his back and warned, “If you tell anyone I said that, I’ll end you, Potter.”

After Harry was released and rubbing his sore arm, he breathed, “Okay, geez. What is it with you? Can’t you just be normal for a second and admit that we’re friends now?”

Malfoy scrunched his nose. “That would be letting you win.”

“Is that so bad?”

“Terrible,” Malfoy said shortly, though he was clearly struggling to stop himself from smiling. He continued, “Surely you have at least _some_ sense to worry about public perception.”

Together, they walked to the outpost and settled into their seats. Harry was confused. “What are you talking about?”

“You saw how the Ravenclaws reacted when they saw me—they ran. It wouldn’t exactly do you well for people to overhear you calling me a ‘friend.’”

“Well, fuck, why would I care about that? They were scared of me, too,” Harry responded. “I’m used to people thinking I’m demented. Do you know that even Hermione has trouble believing me that someone broke into the castle?”

“Maybe,” Malfoy said, pulling his robes tighter around his chest, “That’s because there is no intruder, and it’s just Pritchard and his band of fools playing games.”

“I don’t believe that,” Harry said sternly. “I don’t think you do, either... Not after last night.”

At that, Malfoy shivered, possibly remembering the cloak falling to the ground. A glowbug whizzed around Harry’s head and shot off across the clearing. He watched it shrink away and mix in with the other bugs, and as he did, he made a decision and picked up his satchel from the ground.

“I’ve been thinking...” Harry started. He pulled the bag to his lap and looked at Malfoy. “Going on the assumption that this isn’t just a few rogue students, we’re going to need better protection than what we’ve had.”

Harry opened the satchel and sifted his hand inside until his fingers curled around the object he sought. He paused and again looked at Malfoy, into the boy’s cold-colored eyes, and said, “I want to know that we can trust each other, no matter what it ends up being. Do you... Do you agree with that?”

Curious, Malfoy nodded his head in response. Harry quickly looked around the clearing to ensure they were alone, and then he drew the item from his bag and passed it to Malfoy. The Slytherin took it, long and thin and dressed in smooth cloth, and unwrapped it.

“I can’t take this,” Malfoy said after nearly dropping the wand—his own former wand—in shock. He looked at Harry. “They’ll kick me from the school.”

“Not if they don’t know about it,” Harry replied. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll give it to you when we get to the outpost each night, and you can give it back to me when we’re in the dorm, or when we head up to the castle—whatever.

“But if we’re going to be serious about this,” he continued, “We _both_ need to be prepared for whatever’s coming. I don’t want to see you petrified or with a bleeding heart like Ackerley.”

“It’s too risky,” Malfoy whispered. Then, louder, “I don’t know if you fully understand this, but my whole future is riding on these N.E.W.T.s. It’s the only way I can redeem myself in the eyes of the Ministry.”

“All right,” Harry said, frustrated with the situation, though he tried not to take it out on Malfoy. He held out his hand and accepted the wand back. “Well, I’m going to keep it in my satchel, so if something happens...”

“Deal,” Malfoy said. They both looked away, Harry looking out toward the castle, and Malfoy with his eyes on the ground below their feet. “I appreciate the gesture,” he added awkwardly.

For the rest of the night, they remained quietly at the outpost, only speaking in low tones. The wards were left untouched, and the stables along with them. For once, they were allowed to return to the castle without chasing down the animals.

As they climbed up to the fourth floor, Harry felt it was only a minor calm before the storm.


	11. Love Note

Thursday morning was Advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts, and though Harry was used to breezing through the particular course, the new professor probably hadn’t anticipated so many of the class to already know the coursework by heart.

They were meant to be learning the Patronus charm; of course, all of the eighth-years who’d been members of the DA were already experts at it. It left Professor Blackstow utterly bewildered on what to do when nearly half his class could perform the spell with ease, while the rest had never tried it in their lives.

Distinguished and grey, Blackstow was a long-retired Auror with an unending history of chasing down dark wizards, and he certainly looked the part. He was broad-shouldered and heavyset, and he walked with a slight limp that often required his cane (which had a decorative top that detached and became his wand) to balance himself during lectures.

Today, he was leading them out onto the grounds to have enough space and fresh air to practice with. The day was bright and blue, and Harry could feel the cool breeze coming off the lake toward him.

Blackstow had them break off into pairs, with those who already knew the charm instructed to pair with someone who didn’t. Quickly, Harry turned and searched the grounds for Malfoy, since he certainly didn’t want to wait around and be stuck with Blaise Zabini.

Unfortunately, working with Malfoy also meant getting saddled with Parkinson, since the girl seemed to never leave his side outside of detention. Much to Harry’s relief, and probably the Slytherins’ despair, Neville offered to join their group and even it out.

“I don’t fancy getting stuck with Zabini,” Neville muttered to Harry, who grinned back. Great minds think alike, he supposed.

“So, um, Malfoy—” Neville began awkwardly as they started to work, “Harry tells me you’ve both had quite the handful in detention, with the... dodo birds and all...”

It was a very rough attempt at an ice breaker, but Harry appreciated his effort nonetheless. Neville must have taken what he said about Malfoy’s confession to heart.

“Yes,” Malfoy responded with great restraint. Harry could only imagine what mix of emotions was broiling inside the Slytherin after being addressed so casually by Neville Longbottom. Then, Malfoy muttered, “ _Bloody devils_ ,” and flicked his wand.

As Harry anticipated, neither Malfoy nor Parkinson were having luck with the charm; not even a wispy incorporeal form bloomed from their wands. Parkinson seemed completely unbothered by her lack of progress; but on the other side, Malfoy was taking his a bit too personally.

It probably didn’t help that Harry was the one trying to assist him with it, or that he could easily produce a stag that galloped around the whole clearing with just one flick of his wand. Malfoy became increasingly irritable as the morning drew on without any change in his casting.

“Whatever it is you’re thinking of,” Harry suggested, “Isn’t a strong enough memory. You have to feel it with your whole body.”

“I can work that out for myself, Potter.” Malfoy angrily spat and jutted his wand into the empty air. Harry wanted to remind him that being angry wasn’t going to bring out his Patronus, but he’d rather not get his head bitten off before the weekend.

After the session was complete, Harry rushed to Malfoy’s side as they walked toward the castle doors. “Hey, after lunch, I’d like you to come with me to check on Ackerley.”

“Why is that?” Malfoy still sounded miffed with him.

“Because,” Harry explained, “He might tell us more about the attack, and if it _is_ Pritchard, then I’d like to get your input on it.”

“Wow, Draco,” burst Parkinson, as if she couldn’t stand her own silence any longer. She wrapped her hands around the Slytherin boy’s arm and said, “Offering your counsel to dear Potter—it’s like your dream come true at last.”

“Shut up, Pansy,” Malfoy growled and shook her off of himself. He turned to Harry and said flatly, “Fine, I’ll go. But I need at least forty minutes before I speak to you again.”

With that, the Slytherin walked faster down the corridor to the Great Hall, leaving Harry behind. He sighed. This whole friendship affair still had plenty of wrinkles to iron out.

Almost exactly forty minutes later, Harry was standing from the Gryffindor table and excusing himself. He’d just watched Malfoy get up from the Slytherin table, and he wasn’t about to let the bastard out of sight. He nearly ran to the doors to catch up.

“Feeling better?” Harry asked, amused, as he fell into step with Malfoy in the hallway.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Together, they took the marble stairs up to the first floor and walked across to the hospital wing. The doors stood open, and the room was bright with daylight as Harry turned inside. He looked across the wing and immediately saw a mass of people crowding Ackerley’s bedside.

“That’s Pritchard,” Malfoy mumbled, gesturing toward the boy with the nod of his head.

The Slytherin bully—a fifth-year with meaty shoulders and a head of unruly bright red hair—was standing by the edge of Stewart’s bed and flanked by those whom Harry assumed to be his gang.

“HEY!” Harry shouted; his voice was so loud and threatening that even Malfoy startled beside him. “What are you doing in here?”

“Oh, fuck,” said one of Pritchard’s friends, a tall boy with a cropped afro. As he started running, the others followed.

During all the confusion, Harry briefly noticed that a blonde girl was sitting at Stewart’s bedside. The three Slytherin boys whipped past him through the doorway before he could even properly think. He had mere seconds to decide what to do—he could chase down the Slytherins, hex them, and demand answers; or he could run to Stewart’s bedside and make sure they hadn’t finished him off.

Malfoy, as if sensing Harry’s troubles, made the decision for him: “I’ll go after them. They might talk to me.”

Before Harry could even respond, Malfoy was off down the corridor. Harry turned and jogged toward the bed, where the mystery girl was still seated and nearly bent over him.

“Hey,” Harry began, “Who are you—” Almost instantly, the girl shot out of her seat and ran. She was dressed in Slytherin robes.

Blinking, Harry pivoted to Stewart. Fortunately, the boy was still breathing, though he wasn’t awake. He was still bandaged, and Harry noted that an emptied Dreamless Sleep was sitting on the bedside table.

Then, as the clouds outside moved across the sky and allowed a burst of white light through the glass windows across the room, Harry noticed something else: Stewart’s hand was placed on his chest, and his hand was clutching something. Carefully, Harry slipped his fingers under the boy’s hand and extracted a small folded note.

On the inside was a short and sloppily written sentiment:

_I’m sorry._

“Um, Harry?” He whipped his head around and saw Ashley standing in the doorway. “Is everything all right?”

Quickly, Harry tucked the note back into Stewart’s palm and ran toward the door. “Thank goodness. I’m glad to see you,” he said to her.

“You are?”

“Can you sit with Stewart for a minute? I need to go check on something.”

After leaving the Ravenclaw girl on guard, Harry ran off down the corridor in pursuit of wherever all the Slytherins were headed. Then, realizing they would probably run for cover to the dungeons, Harry turned on his heel and ran to the stairs.

It didn’t take long to find them; they had gotten about halfway across the dungeon corridor before Malfoy must have caught up to them. Harry saw them all huddled in the middle of the hall.

As Harry rounded the corner, he overheard Pritchard say, “Go on, Jude. Give him your answer.”

Suddenly, Malfoy was knocked onto his back with a targeted jinx. Harry drew his wand and rushed forward. “ _Expelliarmus!_ ” he shouted.

All three of the fifth-year Slytherins’ wands flew into his hand, much to their vexation. The boy who had jinxed Malfoy looked terrified of Harry’s abrupt appearance and was hiding behind the other two bullies.

“Give us back our wands!” demanded Pritchard. “Just because the _Daily Prophet_ won’t stop kissing your arse doesn’t mean you can run around and harass us with free reign.”

“That’s rich coming from you, Graham,” grunted Malfoy as he stood back up. “What do you suppose you’ve done to Ackerley? Given him a nice vacation?”

Beside Pritchard, the boy named Malcolm sneered, “Stewart Ackerley got what was coming to him. Ravenclaws know better than to stick their noses into our House’s business.”

“So you admit to it?” Harry challenged. “You three nearly killed another student and you say it’s just some interhouse drama?”

Graham Pritchard innocently raised his hands for show; he looked smug. He replied, “We didn’t touch him.”

Just then, Malfoy’s head snapped toward the corridor, and he only managed to mutter “Potter—” before Harry’s knees buckled. He involuntarily dropped the Slytherins’ wands, sending them clattering to the floor and rolling straight to Pritchard’s feet.

He’d been hit with a jelly-legs jinx. By the time he’d spun around and readied his own wand, he was hit with another jinx—this one curled his tongue, to stop him from casting. Harry’s eyes shot upward and found Blaise Zabini pointing a wand at his chest.

“Well, well, well...” Zabini drawled in his horrible monotone. “Imagine my surprise to host the Boy Wonder in our cold dungeon corridors. How does it feel to be surrounded by such esteemed bloodlines, Potter?”

Harry, of course, couldn’t respond as his tongue was still tied into a knot. Instead, Malfoy asked, “What are you even doing down here, Blaise? We’re assigned to the eighth-year dormitory.”

Zabini lifted his chin and sneered down at them. “Daphne and I have no issue visiting the Slytherin common room. I suppose you didn’t get the same extension of an invitation... After all, that’s what happens when you begin to associate with blood traitors and muggle lovers.

“Isn’t that right, Higgs?” he finished, grinning directly at Jude. The boy was still cowering behind his friends and didn’t dare look anyone else in the eye. With one final sneer, Zabini turned to Pritchard and advised him, “Keep your personal matters away from prying eyes like Malfoy, Potter, and their ilk in the future. They haven’t yet learned the intricacies of polite society.”

Pritchard, frowning, waited for Zabini to disappear down the corridor before he cuffed Jude roughly across the head. Grimacing, Harry pushed himself off the floor into a standing position. He still couldn’t find his voice, but he was fully prepared to use wordless spells if he had to.

However, Pritchard and the others seemed to heed Zabini’s words. The red-haired bully led them off to the Slytherin dormitory, nearly dragging Jude along with him. “You’re fucking dead to me, Higgs,” he hissed.

“Great,” Malfoy drawled sarcastically. “That got us positively nowhere.”

“Th—at,” Harry struggled to say, his tongue still in the process of unfurling, “That’s not— true.” The only thing on his mind was that he needed to get back to the hospital wing and ask Ashley a few more questions. He was already forming something of a theory.

When they got back to the wing, fortunately, the Ravenclaw girl was still there, sitting by Ackerley’s bedside. Harry briskly walked to her and asked, “How is he?”

“No changes,” she shrugged. “He’s just been sleeping. Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Er, some of it,” Harry admitted. “But actually, there was a girl in here earlier... Blonde, probably a fifth-year, and she had Slytherin robes. Do you know her?”

Ashley nodded. “Brooke Clifton. She used to talk to us a lot, actually. These days... not so much.”

“So, she knew Stewart then. Were they friends?”

“Definitely. They were close,” she confirmed. “Jude, too.”

“Really? Jude Higgs was friends with both of them?”

She nodded. “After last year, you know, everything changed so fast. Even though Brooke is halfblood, like Stewart, the Slytherins started keeping to themselves. They were treated better that way...” She awkwardly glanced at Malfoy. “I thought things would have improved now, but... Something must’ve happened between the three of them.”

That night, Harry was glad to have detention. He was frustrated with himself for not getting any further on all the questions that faced him—the Mirror, the escaping animals, his petrification, and now Stewart Ackerley. He was convinced they were all connected, though he had no idea how it could be so.

He _had_ a theory on Ackerley, he thought, but the dead end he’d been left in since the confrontation after lunch left him doubtful of it. He would much rather just not think of any of it, and instead sleep on the grounds if he had to. He only wished (somewhat masochistically) that his detentions would continue over the weekend, but this would be his last outing until Sunday.

Harry peered into the stables. He couldn’t help but smile at the sleeping dodos; really, catching them now seemed much easier a task than anything else he had left on his plate.

“All accounted for?” Malfoy inquired. Harry nodded back, and then went to work on setting up the wards. When they reached the outpost, he almost felt himself walking on air—Hagrid had set them out two large mugs of tea.

Harry sat and sighed wistfully, allowing himself to breathe in the scent of cinnamon for a few minutes before drinking. “I think detention should be an around-the-clock thing,” he said after a particularly sweet gulp of the tea. “All detention. No more hexes or House rivalries.”

“We got into this because of hexes and House rivalries, I’m fairly certain,” Malfoy said.

“Shush. Drink your tea, Malfoy.”

“Perhaps I should save it. Looks like you might need it more,” he joked. Truly, though, Harry did look like a complete mess. It didn’t help that Thursdays ended on Double Transfiguration. Although, if there were a bright side, at least McGonagall seemed to be easing up on him—

Harry gasped. It was loud enough for Malfoy to stare at him, eyebrow raised, and ask, “What?”

“What if McGonagall realizes we’re working together just fine now, and she ends detention early?” Harry asked, clutching his tea in fear. “Maybe we _should_ hex each other again. Er, I mean, I’ll hex you... And you can... I don’t know, yell at me.”

Malfoy’s laugh was so brash that he nearly spilled his own tea. Harry quickly had to lean over and catch the mug. Then, without so much as asking, he took the untouched tea for himself, practically pouring it down his throat.

“Oh, Potter, you are hilarious. To think of how many opportunities to laugh at you I must have missed over the years. It’s tragic.”

Harry lowered the mug from his face and leaned back into his seat. “Do you ever think about it?... Like, what things would be like if we were friends back then?”

“Do you?” The night was dark now, and Malfoy’s face was hard to read in the limited lantern light by their outpost.

Harry frowned and said, “I asked you first.”

“Yes,” Malfoy answered carefully, “I’ve thought about it.”

“Yeah. Same here... Although,” Harry started to laugh. “I’ve got to tell you about this one dream I had. It was one of the recent ones, and you were in it.”

Malfoy shifted in his seat. “Oh?” he muttered.

Harry nodded, remembering the dream vividly. “I was in the Great Hall. The Sorting Hat put me into Slytherin, and everyone was staring at me like I’d grown a second head.”

“Oh,” Malfoy breathed. He seemed to relax.

“So,” Harry continued, “McGonagall tells me to go join my House, and when I get there, you look bloody pissed about it. And then you like... held out your hand. Or something. So then I ran off. Ran into the Mirror. That’s how they all end. But looking back, it is sort of funny. I was scared of getting stuck with you.”

“Hmph. And look at you now,” Malfoy mused. “Merlin, imagine if you’d actually been sorted into Slytherin.”

“I nearly was. I _would_ have been, if Ron hadn’t told me beforehand that everyone hated Slytherins. I was terrified everyone would hate me, so I asked the Hat to put me anywhere else.”

“...In your dream?”

“No, I mean for real. I was nearly roommates with you, Malfoy. Think about it.”

“You would have been eaten alive,” Malfoy said, shocked. “Actually, now that I think about it, the Hat giving some students a choice makes sense. I always wondered how they managed to get exactly the same number of students in each House every year.”

“Did you and Zabini ever hex each other in your sleep?”

“Surprisingly, no. Sleeping was off-limits. However, at least in Slytherin House, you had to be very careful where you kept your personal items. Especially anything you didn’t want someone else to find. I suppose Higgs has found that out the hard way now.”

Harry stared. “What makes you say that?”

“It was very clear to me he’s being coerced by those other two. They must have some kind of leverage on him.”

“Because he’s friends with Ackerley? Actually...” Harry rubbed his forehead. “Well, I was trying not to think about it, but now that you mention it, I do have a sort-of theory.”

Malfoy hummed. “Let’s hear yours first, then. We can compare notes.”

“All right.” Harry sat up straighter in his seat and sat the emptied mugs down on the ground. After readjusting the Gryffindor scarf around his neck, he began, “I think it’s that Slytherin girl that’s the key here. I think maybe she and Ackerley were dating, and word got out among the Slytherins... Then, I don’t know, maybe Jude told Pritchard and the three of them started going after Ackerley. The only thing is I still don’t understand what happened when he was attacked. Maybe Pritchard hit him with a curse from a window, or some other vantage point...”

Malfoy sat with the idea for a moment, nodding, and then said, “I guess that’s as plausible a theory as any.” However, he left it at that, and didn’t add his own thoughts on the matter.

Harry leaned, the wooden seat creaking underneath him, and asked, “What about you? If you think Jude was being extorted, then that doesn’t really track with what I’ve got.”

“Well,” Malfoy sighed, “We’re on a similar page, I think. Do you really want to hear it?”

“Yes,” Harry said, confused. He felt no closer to the answer and was desperate for Malfoy’s input, especially as a Slytherin who was much more familiar with the people involved.

“Okay,” Malfoy acquiesced. “First, you have to try to think of it from a more... traditional perspective. By that I mean purebloods. Pritchard, Higgs, Baddock... that’s the circle they run in. It isn’t easy to blackmail someone with connections like that.

“Now, sure, Higgs being friends with Ackerley and Clifton could raise some eyebrows. However, Higgs has an older brother who was on the Quidditch team. You might remember him. Slytherins respect the name. So, more realistically, if Pritchard was going to go after someone, he’d just go at Ackerley himself and leave the Slytherins out of it.

“Honestly, if Clifton and Ackerley _were_ dating, I doubt anyone would do anything about it. Because...”

“They’re both halfbloods?” Harry finished for him with a sigh. The hierarchy of blood status was a drain on him mentally, for many reasons.

Malfoy nodded. “Right. Now, if Clifton was from a respected pureblood line, it’d be a completely different scenario. Do you know the one thing _every_ pureblood family is most concerned with?”

“Er...” Harry blinked and rubbed his face. The talk of the innerworkings of wizarding families was making him weary. “Fuck, I don’t know. Owning muggles?”

Malfoy snorted. “Inheritance. That’s why so many of our families have arranged marriages.”

“Wait, they do?”

“You really don’t know anything about the wizarding world, do you, Potter? They tend to call them ‘respectable’ marriages—between two pureblood families—like my parents, though they weren’t forced into it like some are. If, for instance, a pureblood was involved with a muggleborn, or even a halfblood in some cases, their family would either disown them or force them into marriage with someone the family has approved of.”

“That’s... horrible,” Harry said. He looked far across the clearing, where the glowbugs were like wiggling stars against the night. He thought of Sirius’ face being burnt off the Black family tree in his own home.

Harry breathed, “So, okay. Blood status, Slytherin, whatever... I think I’m more lost now than I was before.”

Malfoy leaned back in his seat. “Then let me make it plain for you: I think Higgs was involved with Ackerley, and Pritchard found out about it somehow. That would be enough to blackmail Higgs into doing whatever Pritchard said, because if it got back to his family, it could end badly for him. You can’t exactly continue a bloodline if both parties don’t have the requisite parts.”

“Oh,” Harry said. He was still confused. “ _Oh_ ,” he said again with understanding. Then, he shut his eyes and thought about it. “But who stabbed Ackerley?”

“I’ve got no bloody clue,” Malfoy sighed. “It was broad daylight. It’s hard to believe no one saw anything.”

“I think you may be right, though, about Jude,” Harry said. “There was a note in Stewart’s hand today. It said ‘I’m sorry.’”

Malfoy nodded. “See, you can be glad you were sorted into Gryffindor after all. You don’t have to keep track of all the arbitrary rules of blood status.”

“Do they bother you? The rules,” Harry asked. He leaned further, attempting to get a better look at Malfoy’s face.

The Slytherin scowled at him. “Why are you always questioning my motive?”

Harry blinked. Offended at the accusing tone, he stared and asserted, “I’m not questioning you, Malfoy. I’d just like to know what goes on in your head sometimes, okay?”

Before Malfoy could respond, the lantern lights suddenly blew out and shrouded them in blue darkness. Smoke furled inside the glass as if the lanterns had just been snuffed.

With a high-pitched _hum_ , a handful of the glowbugs fluttered toward them as if they were attracted by the lack of light. Realizing he’d completely lost track of the night, Harry checked the time with a _Tempus_ spell and found they were nearing eleven o’clock already.

He shivered. The little warmth the lanterns had provided was now sorely missed, and the autumn chill was seeping through his cloak. “Do you think it was the wind?” he asked, his breath coming out like white fog.

Almost as quickly as the glowbugs had come, they scattered far across the clearing and left the two boys in darkness again. The air was oddly thick and silent. Malfoy shook his head and muttered, “No,” at almost the same time as the wards collapsed above them. Harry winced, both from the alarm going off in his ears and the sparks raining down upon him.

Sooner than he could even cast a charm to end the awful sound, something knocked him out of his seat. He practically flew to the ground, the wind fully knocked out of him, and his face dug harshly into the cold, hard dirt of the clearing. His eyes were snapped shut, seeing nothing but black, and teeth gritted. The alarm was still wailing in his ears.

“ _Finite incantatum!_ ” Harry shouted and pointed his wand upwards. Finally, he drew a breath of relief with the silence that came. _I really should just stop using that charm_ , he thought. The thing had been about as useful to him as a flobberworm.

He pushed himself up on the palms of his hands and spat grass out of his mouth. If there was one thing he could be grateful for in the moment, it was that he hadn’t yet heard the telltale _Pop!_ of a dodo bird apparating. Hopefully this meant the stables hadn’t been disturbed; perhaps the attacker was getting bored and decided Harry and Malfoy were much more interesting subjects to play with.

As he stood, Harry found he was still slightly disoriented from the assault. His headache was coming on again, and the brisk cold only made its needling on his temple worse. Harry rubbed his forehead harshly and called out, “Malfoy, are you all right?”

When no call came back, Harry worried that the Slytherin had been knocked out. Quickly, he pivoted and cast a _Lumos_ across the grounds. “Malfoy?” he called again, louder. The boy was nowhere in sight.

“Fuck,” he breathed. Harry ran to the stables, ensuring they were still locked, and then turned past them toward Hagrid’s garden. “Malfoy!” he called, again and again, as he ran across the grounds. He looked far across toward the Quidditch pitch and the great black lake, but there was no one in sight.

Harry turned back around and headed toward the northeast side of the castle. He could see the whomping willow turned black against the velvet sky, but it was the only visible landmark. Thinking of it far too late, he quickly retrieved the Marauder’s map from his satchel and scanned it carefully. Only one dot showing “Harry Potter” was in the area, along with Hagrid and Fang in the hut. Draco Malfoy was nowhere to be seen on the parchment.

“Fuck,” he said again with even more emphasis. He shoved the map into his bag and ran back toward the outpost, though he had no idea what good it would do him. “Malfoy!”

He continued past the outpost and ran to the only place he could think of—one largely unplotted by the Marauders—the Forbidden Forest. Some of the glowbugs whizzed past him as he ran in, branches cracking underfoot and causing him to stumble into the brush ahead. “Draco!” he yelled. He may as well go all the way with it now that he was alone.

 _Hoo—oot!_ Above him, a startled owl flew from its perch in the high treetops. Harry’s loud footfalls and shouts were causing the forest to stir, but he didn’t care; there was only one thing on his mind.

“Draco!” he yelled again and then fell over exposed roots. He landed roughly onto the forest floor, though he didn’t stay down long. Suddenly, he heard twigs breaking to his right, followed by a faraway wail that sounded almost like his name.

Harry sprung up and squeezed through the trees. He pushed until he came to a clearing and sprinted across it. The next call, more like a guttural wail, was much clearer: “ _Harry!_ ”

He was nearly there now. Harry shoved himself through a thicket, earning bleeding scratches against his exposed skin. His Gryffindor scarf snagged on a limb, so Harry threw it off his neck. “Draco,” he shouted again if only to establish their distance. The breaking of twigs was close again, practically right in front of him, though it was hard to see.

Harry fell out of the brush and landed on his feet in another clearing. Holding his wand aloft, he looked across to the clearing’s end and exhaled a hard breath. Malfoy was on his stomach, clawing at the ground as he was being dragged by his feet further into the darkling forest. His eyes were exposed, perfectly round and white in fear, and the look haunted Harry.

“ _Stupefy!_ ” Harry shouted and pointed his wand directly across to the blackness ahead. The enemy’s hold on Malfoy was released, and there was an audible _thump_ like that of a body falling to the ground, but Harry could not see what he had hit.

He ran straight to Malfoy and pulled him close, saying, “Don’t worry, I’ve got you.” The Slytherin was shaking in his grasp. Harry propped him up against his lap and found that Malfoy’s hands were like ice against his own.

“Are you hurt?” Harry worriedly asked. Then, the breath was knocked out of him as Malfoy nearly squeezed him to death with a tight hug. The Slytherin’s arms were wrapped against his back in a vice-like grip, as though if he let go, he might never see daylight again. Harry’s own arms were hanging lamely in the air, unsure of what to do.

He felt the cold touch of Malfoy’s cheek against his own, its temperature prickling his warm skin like knives. Malfoy’s breaths were coming out in waves. He nearly sobbed, “I thought it was the end.”

Slowly, Harry retreated his arms to Malfoy’s back and held him. “Who was it?” he asked. Although he tried to crane his neck toward the trees between which the attacker had fallen, he couldn’t see anything but darkness, and Malfoy’s grip kept him from turning.

“I don’t know,” he gulped in response. “It’s... It’s not a student.” If the mood was lighter, Harry would have wryly pointed out that this was what he’d been saying all along. Instead, he calmly ran his hand across Malfoy’s back and let his chin sink against the boy’s shoulder.

“What are we going to do?” Malfoy sniffed, trying to reel in his emotions. “It’s barely October. If this keeps on...”

Harry let his eyes fall shut and said, “We’ll figure this out. I haven’t been stopped yet, and I don’t plan on letting this one get away either.”

Suddenly, Harry was thrown back against a tree. “Fuck, Draco, what was that for?” he asked, but then opened his eyes and saw that Malfoy had been thrown back too.

“It wasn’t me...” the Slytherin answered shakily.

A twig snapped. Harry turned toward the right and saw the dark cloaked figure standing above them. Though he couldn’t see a face beyond the blackened hood, he did see that the person’s hand was slender and as pale as moonlight. Their wand, long and black, was pointed at Malfoy’s chest.

Harry moved quickly—he threw his wand up and cast another stunning spell—but the attacker was faster. The red sparks bounced off a shield charm, and then Harry’s wand flew across the clearing. The hooded head moved its gaze from Malfoy to him, and Harry stared defiantly back at its void.

It seemed that the person was analyzing him, and they stared down at him at length. A shuddering ripple moved through the figure’s cloak, and then it turned on its heel and ran into woods.

“Hey!” Harry shouted. He shot up and ran to his wand. Before he could go after the person, Malfoy stood and held him back.

“It’s too dangerous,” he said. “You won’t be able to see.”

Harry grimaced. He hated the thought of letting the intruder get away for another day of this nonsense, but he was also weary and unsettled. Malfoy grabbed his arm and led him away from the tree line, keeping a tight grip so he wouldn’t run off. Together, they made their way back to the outpost.

“What I don’t understand,” breathed Harry as he maneuvered a fallen tree, “Is what game they’re playing. I mean, they petrified me the first time. What was stopping them from doing it again?”

“Maybe that’s the point,” suggested Malfoy, “That it is a game to them. Just like they were messing with the dodos before, but now it’s us.”

“But _why?_ ” Harry asked, though he didn’t expect Malfoy to answer him. He was used to people wanting to hex him, severely injure him, or in some cases outright kill him, but... This was something else entirely.

When he stepped out onto the grounds, the first thing Harry felt was his foot sink into icy water. “What the—” He looked up and saw that they had come out to the easternmost bank of the lake, which butted up to the southern edge of the forest and castle grounds.

 _Did we really wander that far?_ Harry wondered. He could admit he wasn’t the best at directions, especially in something like the Forbidden Forest, but he’d never ventured this far off before. Malfoy stepped out beside him and staggered back as his feet sank into the shallows too.

A flash of something bright caught Harry’s eye. He looked out across the water and saw one of the castle’s boats gliding straight toward them, its lantern lit and warm against the night. The boat slid easily over the still, oily black surface until it came to the shore, imbedding its hull in the muck. Waves rippled across the lake from its impact.

The boat itself was empty of anything besides its lantern. Whatever the thing wanted with them, Harry wasn’t interested in discovering. He only wanted to get back to the castle and to McGonagall’s office, to ruin another night for her with warnings of the castle’s invader.

“I just realized something,” Malfoy said almost as if in a trance, as they both stood ankle-deep in the water. The waves sent a freezing chill crawling up Harry’s skin. With a great sloshing sound, the Slytherin ran off back toward Hagrid’s stables.

“Hey—” Harry started, caught off guard. He ran after him. “Draco, wait up!” It didn’t seem like a good idea for either of them to stray out of the other’s sight, considering what had just happened, but Malfoy ran determinedly ahead.

As they got to the clearing by the outpost, Malfoy stopped and spun around. He was acting very... odd. He said to Harry, “I should have known from the start, when you started using my given name. Here, hand me my wand.”

The Slytherin helped himself to Harry’s satchel and withdrew his old wand from inside it. “Watch this and weep, Potter,” he said and threw his wand to the sky. “ _Expecto Patronum._ ”

From the wand tip erupted a flash of silver and blue light; the magic, like smoke, swirled outward and grew. Harry watched in awe as the spell took a corporeal form. The Patronus unfurled outwards, slithering almost like a snake, until it expanded and wings burst from its sides. Silver sparks were erupting from it as it grew, and it flew high over their heads and around the whole castle grounds. Magical blue fire was spat from its scaly mouth between rows of teeth.

“Look at that!” Malfoy shouted, nearly bouncing in elation. He gloated, “It’s a fucking _dragon_ , Potter! Tell that to your bloody prancing deer.”

Harry stood, breathless, as the thing twirled in the air. Then, it turned and flew low, straight toward them both. Harry ducked, although the Patronus merely passed through them. A cool wind whipped at his face and the sparks dissipated into a rain of silver and blue glitter upon them until finally the spell was finished.

Harry stood straight and turned to Malfoy, his mouth hanging open but unable to speak. The Slytherin appeared very smug for a few seconds, but he ultimately threw his wand to the ground in anger. “I knew it,” he huffed. He looked Harry in the eyes and said, “This is just a fucking dream.”

Harry blinked rapidly. “What?” was all he managed to say. He watched as Malfoy, frowning, retrieved the wand from where he’d thrown it and pocketed it.

“I mean, really,” Malfoy mused, mostly to himself, “Think about it. You never call me by my given name. You’ve only done it in my dreams. I should have known from the start...”

“Malfoy,” Harry said, both confused _and_ annoyed, “How could this be a dream?”

“Did you not just see that massive dragon come out of my wand?”

He did have to admit: that part seemed far-fetched. However, he didn’t recall ever leaving detention or falling asleep. _When_ could he have started dreaming, if they really were?

Malfoy continued, “And now that I know it’s just a dream, I can do whatever I want, _Harry_.” He jutted his finger hard against Harry’s sternum.

“What makes you think I wouldn’t call you ‘Draco’ normally?”

This seemed to amuse the boy, as if this were now turning into a game. Malfoy snorted and said, “Are you offended that I’ve figured you out, Dream-Potter? You won’t fool me any longer.”

 _Oh boy_ , Harry thought. This was going to be tough to deal with. Maybe if he could get Malfoy back to the castle, he could convince him they weren’t dreaming.

“You know what? Let’s go to Hogsmeade,” Malfoy said giddily. “I’ll buy you a butterbeer for your troubles.”

“Er, Draco, it’s probably past midnight.” Then, he snapped his mouth shut, having uttered the Slytherin’s first name again, which would only further convince him of the dream delusion.

“Wait. I’ve got a better idea.” Abruptly, Malfoy started off across the grounds toward the Quidditch pitch. Harry ran after him.

When he finally caught up with him by the shed, Malfoy tossed him a broom and said, “One-on-one seeker’s game, Potter. Winner takes all.”

“Malfoy, it’s pitch-black outside.” Even though there were lights on the field, they would do nothing to illuminate the snitch once it got going. Nevertheless, Malfoy seemed bent on pushing this dream theory, and he wouldn’t rest until Harry agreed to play with him.

Malfoy hurriedly opened the school’s Quidditch box and grabbed the snitch in his fist. “You’re just bitter because you know you’ll lose to me,” he challenged.

Harry rolled his eyes. “We’ll see about that.” He followed Malfoy to the center of the pitch, where the white light was the brightest. High above them, the sky was dark but clear, and the moon well overhead. Malfoy held his fist up high and released the snitch—the game was on.

After quickly mounting the school broom, Harry shot up until he was clear of the pitch’s lights, hoping that his eyes would adjust to the darkness and better see the snitch. Malfoy, on the other hand, was making a full rotation around the whole field, trying to use the lighting to his advantage.

Letting the night’s chill soothe his nerves, Harry gripped the handle tighter and shut his eyes; he focused only on his breathing and the silence around him. Suddenly, he heard a flutter pass by. His eyes snapped open and he saw something shine across the field.

Harry leaned down on his broom and sped off toward the shimmer. Below, Malfoy noticed his movement, and took aim for him. The thing was still a ways from him, but it continued to pulse against the night like a gold beacon.

Harry leaned even further. The broom, old and worn, shuddered under the pressure, but it obeyed and pushed on. Malfoy swept up beside him, almost hitting him, and pursued. They were only an arm’s length apart as they raced toward the snitch.

Well, he _thought_ it was a snitch. As Harry zoomed toward the glow, it grew larger and flickered, and he then too belatedly realized that the stables had been unlocked, and the firedrakes were out of their pens, because he was about to slam right into one of them.

Harry quickly jerked up on the broom handle; the poor thing creaked in retaliation, but he was at least able to avoid hitting the firedrake head-on. The flying lizard screeched at him in warning.

Malfoy, unfortunately, noticed the firedrake too late. Although the animal was flexible and had quick reflexes, and so was able to maneuver the incoming assault without getting impaled, the beast was also short-tempered and had a flaming tail. It smacked its long tail at Malfoy as he flew by, catching the broom’s bristles on fire.

Smoke was already billowing; the open air was aiding the fire to grow at an accelerated rate, and the flames soon started to climb up the stalk, toward Malfoy’s seat. He was too high up to safely make it down before the flames reached him, Harry knew.

He raced toward Malfoy, who was trying and failing to fan out the flames. Harry drew his wand and cast an extinguishing charm at the bristles. The flames burned down, and the smoke immediately grew to a great blue plume, causing Malfoy to cough as he inhaled it. “You all right?” Harry asked.

“Peachy,” Malfoy wheezed. Clearly, his ‘dream’ wasn’t going to plan. Harry flew closer and examined the broom; the wood near its back had turned completely black and stiff. Harry doubted if it would even handle the distance back to the ground.

However, Malfoy seemed undisturbed by it, and instead demanded, “We’re still playing.” As he flew off, Harry turned on the spot and yelled back, “Are you mad?” He raised his handle upwards and sped toward the Slytherin prat. Within moments, it was clear that Malfoy’s broom was already succumbing to the pressure. The cracking of the inner stem was so loud even he could hear it as he crossed the pitch.

“Malfoy, that broom is busted,” he shouted in warning. Suddenly, the broom started to split from its end, sending the scorched bristles flying off into the night.

“Shit,” Malfoy muttered, kicking the air in an attempt to will the broom to turn. He tried leaning the handle down, but the crack only worsened. The broom wouldn’t move at all. Before Harry could even reach him, the rest of the scorched wood finally split, leveling the seat and dropping Malfoy from the broom.

Though the boy tried to catch himself by his hands, he misjudged the angle in the dark and slipped off the handle. Malfoy was falling. Harry pushed forward and sped straight ahead; he was still lower to the ground than Malfoy and instead focused on getting underneath him. Almost in an instant, he felt Malfoy’s whole body ram into him. He lost his breath, along with his grip, and was pushed backwards onto the broom.

“ _Oof_ ,” he winced. They fell in a heap onto the cold, hard grass of the pitch. Harry landed harshly on his back and was holding Malfoy fast to his chest in an attempt to keep him from getting his head caved in by the impact. His broom had landed handle-first in the ground and was sporting a splintered crack; the other broom was nowhere to be seen. Madam Hooch was going to murder them in their sleep.

Both of them were breathing hard. Malfoy pushed up onto his knees and looked down at Harry. He tried to laugh, though it was obstructed by his pain and exhaustion. He asked, “Do you know why I even joined the Quidditch team?”

Harry shut his eyes and said, “To show me up.”

“Exactly.” Harry opened his eyes again and saw that Malfoy was roughly rubbing his face. “I didn’t even care about catching the stupid snitch,” he continued. “I just wanted your attention.”

“Mine?”

Malfoy moved his hands to grip Harry’s collar and whispered, “Are you stupid?”

Harry smiled and replied, “Yes,” because really, what else was he supposed to say? Then, the Slytherin shifted and leaned in closer. Harry could see the faintest hint of blue flecks in his grey eyes.

He didn’t know if it was the cold, the lateness of the night, or their fall—or more realistically, all three—but Harry’s limbs began to tingle with a feathery lightness, almost like his muscles were falling asleep, though he had no issue moving. Well, he would have no issue, if it weren’t for Malfoy sitting on top of him.

The Slytherin smirked and said, “There is so much I’d like to tell you.”

“Then tell me,” Harry said. Maybe Malfoy’s delusional thinking wouldn’t be so bad after all if it meant he’d finally open up to him.

“You asked me once... You asked me, before the Fiendfyre, why I didn’t tell them it was you. Well, obviously, I didn’t tell them because I wanted Voldemort dead. I wanted you to win. But that wasn’t all of it, either.

“You looked at me so clearly, even with all those years of hatred between us. All that time I’d wanted to come out on top of you, and suddenly you were at my feet... It felt awful. I couldn’t even feel good about lying for you, because one lie couldn’t repair all the damage before it. I was still left as nothing... nothing but a Death Eater.

“I wish I had done everything differently—starting from the moment I set foot on that train, eight years ago... It could have been so different.”

Harry rested his hand on Malfoy’s shaking arm and reassured him, “What matters is what you do now, Draco.”

“Shut up. You’re just my subconscious. It’s like I’m patting myself on the back. It’s pathetic.”

Harry rolled his eyes and smiled. “All right, fine. I hate your guts and wish you were dead. Is that better?” After a long moment of silence between them, Harry continued more softly, “You know, I wish things were different too. But we can’t change any of it, so, I’d rather focus on the now.”

His words seemed to do no good for Malfoy; in fact, the Slytherin was shaking more now than before, and his mouth was curled into a pained frown. He muttered, “I’ll never have anything I really want.”

Harry knocked his head back on the grass and sighed. “Well, considering this is your _dream_ , you should be able to get whatever you want, shouldn’t you?”

“That’s dangerous thinking, Potter. Dream-Potter.”

Harry snorted. “Why’s that?” he asked. When he got no response, Harry rolled his head forward and looked; Malfoy was staring him in the eyes. Dangerously so.

“What is—" Harry tried to say, before he was cut off, along with his air, and all of his motor functions, as Draco Malfoy roughly pulled him up and kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	12. The Space Between

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sincere thank you to everyone who's read, commented, and/or left kudos so far... :) I hope you continue to enjoy the story! I know waiting between chapters can be rough, especially with how I ended the last one, so... here's another one to hold you over as we approach the holiday season. I'm quickly catching up to where I'm currently writing (chapter 15), so my next updates may be slower. Thanks for reading!

All Harry could hear was his own heart pounding in his chest; it was so loud, and felt so volatile, that he worried his heart might actually rupture. He sucked in a sharp breath as Malfoy let him go, sending him falling back against the grass of the pitch. Then, Malfoy shifted forward and leaned in for another attack.

He came in at a slight angle, his nose brushing against Harry’s, and pressed his lips down upon him. Softly catching his upper lip, Malfoy kissed him... Slowly. Carefully. The word that came to Harry’s buttery mind was _supple_.

Something between a confused whine and a moan escaped Harry’s mouth as he lay there, thinking, _If this_ isn’t _a dream, I am so fucked_. Then, he figured whether it was a dream or not, it didn’t matter—he was fucked either way. He wasn’t sure if it was better or worse that the Slytherin thought this was all in his head.

Without warning, Malfoy stopped again and pulled away from his face. Confused, Harry looked up into the other boy’s eyes, which were blown wide and offset by a worried brow. Malfoy, panting for air, looked hesitant, which Harry didn’t understand, considering he was the one who’d started the whole thing.

Harry watched as Malfoy shut his eyes and frowned. The Slytherin was leaning on his own trembling hands for support, as if he had no strength left in his body. He looked helpless—like a boy who’d been destined to suffer for making all the wrong choices, and would forever bear the weight of them; but that wasn’t the boy Harry knew any longer. No, he couldn’t stand to watch the weight push so heavily on Malfoy’s shoulders; on one who so desperately wanted to start over.

For the last several days, there had been a desperate thought nagging at the back of Harry’s mind—a need to know what his life could have been like if he and Draco had become friends from the beginning. As he looked up into the Slytherin’s tortured face, he thought maybe the answer had been in front of him all along. He lifted his hand to the boy’s cheek and wiped away a fresh tear.

Slowly, Harry pushed himself into a sitting position, moving Draco with him, so he wouldn’t have to bear the weight alone. Then, he leaned into the remaining distance and kissed him back.

He felt weightless. It was like all his insides had been filled with sparkling stars. Even his rapidly beating heart was fading into the background of the touch against Draco’s lips. He kissed him lightly, afraid he might break him, until he felt Draco push back into it. Harry’s nose pressed into his cheek and he smelled the pine and soil of the forest there. He felt the warmth of Draco’s tongue play against his skin and parted his lips. They sank into each other then, their tongues lightly touching and soft as rose petals, and Harry tasted a tart sweetness like lemon, orange, and cranberry all blended together into one intoxicating flavor.

With each stroke of the kiss—the pulling, fluttering peck, and soft press—Harry drifted further in. He could hardly sense anything else. Even the cold had gone away and been replaced by a warmth that made him feel as if he were lying on a soft blanket in front of a winter’s fire. He slid his hand further along Draco’s cheek until he met his ear, and then he entangled his fingers in the soft blond hair behind it and slowly rubbed the skin underneath.

Draco moaned against his lips. He grabbed at Harry’s cloak with both hands and rolled them both onto their sides as one. The cold ground struck Harry’s cheek like ice, but he didn’t mind it. Instead, he drew his hand down to Draco’s back and pulled him closer; and in return, Draco wrapped his leg around his thigh.

They continued like that for what felt like hours, though realistically it could have only been minutes. The moon was still high overhead and bright as Harry pulled away for air, his breaths coming out harshly. Beside him, Draco rolled away and onto his back, resting his hand against his fast-rising chest. Draco chuckled to himself with a hollow tone and then said, quietly, “Do you see what I mean?”

But Harry was confused. The only concrete thought sticking to his brain was the silken texture of Draco Malfoy’s lips. A harsh blast of wind blew across the pitch suddenly, whipping them both with its prickling cold. Harry quickly sat up and rubbed his knees, shaking from the chill. He looked down at Draco, and though he felt he had so much to say, his mouth hung open and nothing would come out.

 _Pop!_ Without warning, a dodo apparated onto the pitch, only a few feet in front of Harry. Feeling this was his sign to move on, Harry stood and scooped the bird up into his arms. He turned and looked back at Malfoy, who was still lying on the grass, and said to him, “Hey, we should head back.”

“What’s the point?” Malfoy muttered. “When I wake up tomorrow, nothing will have mattered. I don’t want to move.”

Harry frowned. He walked over to the Slytherin and nudged him with his shoe. “How about I buy you that butterbeer?”

As he said it, he smiled, and it didn’t take long for Malfoy to lighten up to the idea. Together, they left the pitch and headed off toward the stables to deposit the lost dodo bird. Harry trudged down the cold slope, his steps audibly crunching, while Malfoy followed slowly behind.

Harry’s heart felt like it was flipping in his chest as he walked; there were simply too many new emotions to be contained within it. He figured once the dodo was back in its pen, he could drown himself in butterbeer (willing that any place in Hogsmeade would serve them so late), and then he could sleep it all off and hopefully have a game plan for the weekend come morning. A game plan...

Harry slowed in his tracks. God, what did he even want? Hopefully time would tell. With one last look at the stars high above, Harry turned toward the stables and looked across the grounds.

His breath hitched. He froze in his tracks, and his clutch around the dodo grew tight in fear. _Pop!_ The bird disapparated from his arms. Harry let them fall limply to his sides as he gazed ahead, unbelieving of the sight:

Standing tall and ominous as ever in front of him was the Mirror of Erised. Its frame glinted a ghostly silver in the moonlight, and its black glass stared at him with a challenge. ‘ _Come face me_ ,’ Harry imagined it saying, though the Mirror could not speak.

Before he could even run toward it to look into his reflection, Harry blacked out.

~~~

“ _Nnngh_ ,” Harry groaned, his teeth clenched. The whole right half of his body was burning with cold; especially his exposed cheek, which felt as if it were rubbed raw with frost. His left half was much warmer, but his head was lain at a weird angle that arrested his neck with a painful strain. Gingerly, he lifted his head up, his stiff neck creaking the whole way, and pulled his eyes open with some effort.

He was at the outpost, sitting on his stiff wooden chair—which explained the other ache in his lower half—and found that he’d been resting his head against Malfoy’s. He could smell a faint trace of pine mixed with sea salt coming off the boy’s blond hair, which was tickling his jaw. The Slytherin was curled up in his cloak and had tucked himself against Harry’s warm shoulder during the night. Slowly, Harry turned in his seat, trying not to move his shoulder. He heard a distant song floating toward him on the early morning air.

It was a tune he thought he’d heard before, probably many years ago. The song was voiceless, and light with a whistling tone; he figured it was coming from a single flute somewhere across the grounds. As he listened, Harry was surprised to see one of the dodo birds wandering around the clearing. It waddled forward slowly, completely ignoring the boys at the outpost, and disappeared around the corner of the stables.

Itching to follow it, Harry carefully pushed Malfoy from his shoulder and did his best to sit the boy upright so he wouldn’t fall onto his face. Then, he padded off to the grounds, leaving the clearing behind him. When he came around the stables, he saw the dodo was still advancing in the direction of the mysterious song. Together, they passed behind Hagrid’s hut and came out onto the wide grassy slope that led up toward the northern gates.

Harry gaped when he saw what waited beyond them. Quickly, he turned around and ran back to the outpost. He shook Malfoy by the shoulders and said, “Dra— Malfoy, wake up. You’ve got to see this.”

The Slytherin grumbled in protest, but at Harry’s insistence (when did he ever give up on anything? ...besides Occlumency—that didn’t count), Malfoy finally gave in and opened his eyes. “What the bloody hell do you want?” he asked thickly.

“There’s something up the hill I need to show you,” Harry replied with urgency. The flute was still playing its melody, but he didn’t know how much longer it would go on.

Malfoy, disoriented, seemed to barely register his words. Instead, he pulled his cloak tighter around his neck and asked, “Did we sleep out here?” Then, after a moment, he seemed to become much more sober and recoiled away from Harry’s proximity.

Harry motioned with his arms. “We don’t have much time. Come on, now,” he demanded. Finally, he just grabbed Malfoy’s arm and pulled him out of the seat.

“Was someone else attacked?” the Slytherin asked him groggily as he followed Harry past the stables. Then, his head perked up and he asked, “Is that music?”

Harry led him out onto the opening. It was early morning—he mused that it was probably nearing seven o’clock—and the sun had still not peeked beyond the horizon yet. However, dawn had arrived: the sky was caught in a soft blend of pink and pastel blue, and the land, wet with dew, was still left dark in contrast. Set near the top of the northern slope was a cluster of darkened shapes from which the flute’s song was emanating.

As they drew closer, Malfoy rubbed his eyes to ensure he was seeing it correctly. Beside him, Harry grinned and rushed forward.

Sitting on the grass, framed by the tall pastel stone wall surrounding the castle grounds, was Hagrid. He held the little flute in his giant hands and was playing with a comforting ease, and though the notes weren’t that of a professional musician, no one seemed to mind. All around the half-giant were his escaped beasts; some were still in the process of arriving, waddling up the wet grass to join the crowd. The animals—even the firedrakes, Harry noticed—were enraptured by the tune.

To Harry, the song spoke of something long ago. It made him feel as if he might be only eleven years old again, and filled with the innocent hope of his belonging in a new world. He sat on the grass and watched as even more dodos wandered past, up the slope, where Hagrid was still playing unbeknownst of Harry and Malfoy’s presence. After only a few moments, Malfoy sat down beside him. They were both transfixed by the scene in front of them.

It was almost enough— _almost_ —to distract Harry from overthinking the night’s events. He gazed west toward the dark silhouette of the Quidditch pitch and shivered; perhaps he could write it all off as another weird dream and put it out of his mind. Then, he subtly diverted his gaze to Malfoy, sitting beside him with a calm, soft face fixed on Hagrid’s flute, and realized he would never be able to put it out of his mind for as long as he lived. Harry pulled his legs to his rapidly beating chest, looked to the wet grass at his feet, and thought: _I am so fucked_.

After a while, the music changed with the appearance of the cresting sun to a more upbeat song, and Hagrid stood. He began down the slope, the animals slowly following behind him, to herd the beasts to their stables. As the half-giant walked, he met eyes with Harry and waved for both him and Malfoy to follow along.

“Will we scare them?” Harry asked, not wanting to make more work if the dodos started popping off again.

Hagrid dropped the flute from his lips, shaking his head, and said, “They’re all peaceful as newborns now. Yeh can pet ‘em if yeh like.”

Harry bent and ran his hand over one of the dodos’ heads; the feathers were as soft as his own Gryffindor scarf. With this thought in his head, Harry frowned and stood back up. His neck was left cold and scarf-less—he figured he must have put it in his bag at some time during the night.

Once the animals were all back in their pens and locked tight, Hagrid turned around to the two boys with a smile. He began, “Well, I’ve got some good news for yeh both this mornin’, but first—how are yeh feelin’? I’d be shocked if yeh both don’t catch a cold from sleeping out here overnight.”

“Oh, yeah,” Harry said, embarrassed. He realized Hagrid must have seen them (practically sleeping on top of each other, mind you) when he checked the stables earlier in the morning. He continued, “We’re all right. What’s the news?”

Hagrid rubbed his shabbily gloved hands together for warmth. He said, “I decided to have a talk with the Headmistress. Seein’ as there’s been no improvements with the animals, I don’t see why you two should need ta waste your nights out on the grounds anymore. O’ course, I tol’ her it’s not yer fault. The buggers just won’t quit. So, the Headmistress has agreed to drop the rest of your detentions.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. It was his worst fear come to fruition. He nearly shouted, “But we’ve barely started! We were supposed to go all the way through the end of the month.”

Hagrid shook his head. “She’s made up her mind. You didn’ hear it from me, but apparently some people put in a good word for you two.” He winked and continued, “She heard what you both went and did for that Ravenclaw boy, too. Be glad yeh won’t have to sit out in the cold anymore.”

“But—“ Harry continued to protest, “What about the animals? It’s not as if the stables will stop being blown open every night.”

“Now don’t be worrying about that. As yeh can see, I’ve had my rest and found a better way to round ‘em all up. I can handle ‘em myself.”

“But what about the person who’s responsible?” Harry asked. “Somebody needs to be out there to catch them in the act. We almost—”

He was about to say, ‘We almost caught them last night,’ but then realized that was only in his dream. “We’ve been trying, Hagrid,” he said finally.

Although the half-giant looked sympathetic, he clearly wasn’t about to go against McGonagall’s orders. He shrugged and said, “Since none of the animals ’ve been harmed, there’s not much to do, I’m afraid. We’ll all be all right, ‘Arry.”

 _Tell that to Stewart Ackerley_ , Harry thought bitterly. He was growing incredibly frustrated; he hated feeling powerless, but powerless he felt against this seemingly uncatchable enemy. Hagrid patted him on the shoulder—so heavily that Harry stumbled—and encouraged him, “Enjoy the time off. I reckon if yeh start now, yeh can both make it just in time for breakfast to be laid out. Best time to get it is when it’s fresh outta the ovens like tha’.”

Unsatisfied, Harry nodded and began the walk back to the castle, with Malfoy trailing along just behind him. As they took up the slope, Harry looked over his shoulder at the blond and said, “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

The slightest hint of a smirk crossed Malfoy’s face, though for some reason, he was doing his best to look glum. He responded, “And what is that?”

Harry sighed like it was completely obvious. He answered, “We’re coming back out here. _Every_ night if we have to, until we finally get this bastard.”

Malfoy looked unamused. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m serious, Malfoy. I’ll go alone if I have to. You don’t want that, do you?”

“Do whatever you want,” the Slytherin responded coldly.

Malfoy’s sudden and complete shift in attitude took Harry by surprise. It was like his secret fear—that the detentions would stop, or the mystery would be solved, and that he and Malfoy would go back to their separate ways—was already coming to life right in front of him.

As he stepped inside, Harry protested, “But what happened to being detention partners?”

Malfoy gritted his teeth, picked up his pace, and said, “It’s over.” He walked past Harry and left him standing alone in the corridor, dumbfounded.

After making sure he was alone, Draco nearly flew to the fourth-floor corridor. However, the bloody portrait wouldn’t help him get into the tower, so he had no choice but to lock himself into the corridor’s rarely used bathroom and pathetically slide to the floor. He was breathing erratically, but it was less from having run up the stairs and more likely due to his uncontrollably rushing heart. Each time he had even glanced at Potter that morning, he could only think of the dream.

And then when the groundskeeper announced their detentions were being cut drastically short, Draco realized it was a sign that he’d taken this budding friendship with Potter much too far, because now the bespectacled git was haunting him in his sleep. He needed to get far, far away from the Gryffindor if he were ever to recover. Already, he could feel the blush creeping up his face, which he then unceremoniously shoved into his hands to avoid the added embarrassment.

If Pansy or Blaise were to ever catch wind of this, he’d never live it down—even as far back as fourth year, when far too many people were beginning to do nothing but speak of their crushes and heartbreaks, the two of them became convinced that Draco’s incessant fixation on Potter must have meant there was _something_ going on in the dark recesses of his mind. He saw to squash that idea immediately, though Pansy especially never missed an opportunity to pepper implications into her jibes ever after.

She had become indescribably insufferable about the subject ever since he and Potter started becoming ‘friends.’ It had gotten to the point where it was almost an obsession for her, Draco thought; Pansy was constantly speaking of the two boys as if they were basically already a couple. She was like some sort of demented paparazzi.

In fact, she’d been talking about it so much the past week that it started sitting at the back of Draco’s head every time he was around the Boy Who Lived, which was often these days. For this reason, he blamed his dream on Pansy and decided it was her fault that he could barely breathe as he sat on the cold, damp stone of the empty fourth-floor bathroom.

As he started to focus on blaming Pansy, he felt himself coming to his senses, and then he felt something else—sharp, and poking painfully against his hip. During all the ruckus, his wand must have shifted in his pocket. Draco drew it out and then threw it to the floor, thinking of all the work he still had left for the year. The wand clattered loudly in the empty room and rolled; then, after hitting a bump in the stone, it reversed course and rolled back to Draco’s feet.

Rubbing his face, which was finally lessening of his warm blush, Draco picked the wand back up and held it. He stared.

It wasn’t his wand. Well, it _was_ —but it wasn’t his Ministry wand... His eyes went wide and he dropped the thing in shock. His erratic breathing came back in waves, and all the blood in his body began to rush to his ears, drowning out the silence.

This was, quite possibly, the worst thing Draco could ever imagine. It was even _possibly_ worse than his fear that Voldemort would come back from the grave just to do him in. If his sense of reality could be trusted—and this was something he was beginning to doubt more and more—then _everything_ he experienced last night, and had thought was a dream, was in fact not a dream at all. Meaning...

“Fuck,” he breathed. If none of it had been a dream, if it had all really happened as he remembered, then that meant he’d really, truly, unequivocally kissed Harry Potter. And even worse(?)—Potter had kissed him back.

From the gloom of the bathroom, Draco heard a giggle. “I think you’re a bit too old for me now, sorry,” came the watery voice of Moaning Myrtle. “In a manner of speaking.”

The ghost-girl had the worst timing imaginable. She must have traveled through the pipes in search of someone to torment. Draco, on the edge of a mental breakdown, swiftly grabbed his wand back and ran for the door. Myrtle followed him, looking haughtily offended.

“Where do you think _you’re_ going? Why, it’s been ages since you last spoke to poor, _mopey_ Myrtle. Won’t you talk with me again, Draco?” Everything she said was playfully dramaticized as if the girl thought she were auditioning to play the role of a puppy.

Draco quickly threw the lock open and said, panting, “Sorry, Myrtle, maybe next century.” He ran through the door, leaving the temperamental ghost shrilly crying in his wake.

He needed to get into the dormitory, preferably before Potter returned from breakfast. The plan was already whirling around in his brain: he could break into the Gryffindor’s room, store the wand somewhere inconspicuous, and then the boy would be none the wiser. If Potter noticed the wand was missing, he could eventually find it himself and think he’d merely misplaced it.

However, there was a problem: of course, Draco couldn’t get into the dormitory by himself. He briefly considered using the wand to do it, but then realized it would be too risky, in case the Headmistress ever asked the portrait girl about him. He decided he would double back to the ground floor, peek into the Great Hall to check for Pansy, and wait for her somewhere.

However, before he could even make it there, Potter ran into him as he was about halfway down the staircase. The Gryffindor looked almost guilty as he said, “I realized you probably couldn’t get into the dorms.” _Damn him and his hero complex_ , Draco thought with irritation.

“Also,” continued Potter, “I brought you these. Thought you might be hungry.” He held up a napkin full of sausage and toast with jam. The sight made Draco absolutely rage inside—he _was_ hungry, and for fuck’s sake, he was trying to _forget_ about Potter, not be swooned by him.

He quickly stole the food out of Potter’s open hand without saying a word and pivoted back to the fourth floor. If the git wanted to let him into the tower, fine—Draco would merely wait in the common room until the boy left again. As they walked toward the portrait, Potter asked awkwardly, “Did I, er, do something... wrong?”

 _Shit_. He couldn’t let Potter get suspicious, but he also couldn’t let him capitalize on Draco’s every waking moment like he’d been used to. No, this was going to take some finesse—Draco needed to lead him off the trail.

“I feel like I barely got any bloody sleep last night,” he said. “Those chairs Hagrid set out for us may as well have been as useful as a rock.” For the record, it wasn’t entirely a lie.

“Oh,” Potter said. He seemed distracted, but he backed off of any further poking on the issue. “Yeah, I guess I had trouble with it too.” He pressed his wand to the portrait canvas and gave the password. Slowly, the stone stairs rose from the floor to let them inside the tower.

When they reached the common room, Potter asked, “So, er, see you in class then?”

“Yep,” Draco replied. Since Potter wasn’t budging, he decided to go to his room first to eat. Then, he would camp out in the common room and hope Potter left early before Double Potions started. The longer he held onto this wand, the more dangerous it would be—both the danger of Potter realizing the dream was real, and of a teacher finding it on him and expelling him from the school. To Draco, the wand might as well have been a ticking timebomb.

~~~

In Harry’s humble opinion, this had been his worst week since the start of term. A full eight days had passed since his dream-kiss (yes, he was counting), and now it was Friday, exactly in the middle of October, and Harry was miserable. If you asked him, it was worse than being petrified, hit with a bludger, or sentenced to a month-long detention. Why was it worse? Well...

He was lonely. Not only had Malfoy started completely ignoring him once they were relieved of duty on the grounds, but his own friends were becoming preoccupied with their lives—Ron and Hermione needed no explanation, as they pretty much spent all of their free time now shut up in Ron’s room; Neville, apparently, had started spending more time in the greenhouses, often accompanied by Hannah Abbott; and Ginny, who was still very much sour with him, was rumored to be dating someone new, though she refused to tell him who.

It appeared that during Harry’s time in detention, everyone ran off and found new things (or people) to do—without him. All he was left with was his rapidly piling up homework, which he regarded with a scowl as he came into his room after having sadly picked at his supper. The paper birds were squawking angrily, so he set them loose from their cage.

Harry tossed his satchel to the bed and turned it over, letting all the contents spill out onto his comforter. He’d done the same thing five times already, but he kept telling himself maybe _this_ would be the one. Not only had he somehow lost his favorite Gryffindor scarf, but he realized belatedly that Malfoy’s old wand was missing from the bag, too. Harry shifted through the mess, carefully setting aside his Weazawig scarf, and once again had come up with nothing.

He sighed in frustration. Then, his attention was caught by one of the birds noisily tweeting in his ear. The little paper coal tit flew to the wooden floorboards beneath his feet and hopped along it, as if it was gesturing to something beneath his bed. Harry bent down and looked—sure enough, he stuck his hand into the shadowed gap and came away with Malfoy’s wand.

“Well, that’s one down,” he said with relief. The wand must have fallen and rolled under his bed the first time he turned the satchel over. Harry bent over further and used _Lumos_ to check the rest of the space beneath his bed, but his scarf was nowhere to be seen. He supposed he’d lost it for good.

Harry stood and started stuffing everything back into his bag. After tucking away the wand safely at the bottom of the satchel, he grabbed the Marauder’s map off his comforter and sat on the bed. “ _I solemnly swear that I am up to no good_ ,” he chanted and pressed his wand to the parchment. It had become a habit, and a somewhat familiar one at that, to check the map every day now. Seeing as he was often left alone, Harry found that the solitude gave him ample time to scan the castle for any signs of unusual visitors; and, of course, he could always see what Malfoy was up to.

Currently, it was nearing nine o’clock that night, and the Slytherin was sitting motionless in his suite. Harry frowned. If they were both going to be miserable and alone, then bloody hell, couldn’t they be miserable and alone _together_? He shoved the map into his satchel and went out the door.

He took the stairs two at a time down to the Slytherins’ floor and walked straight to Malfoy’s door. He knocked rapidly and said loudly, “Malfoy, I know you’re in there.”

When no answer came, he knocked again and said, “If you don’t open this door, I’m going to leave this tower by myself and go out on the grounds alone. You don’t want me to get killed, do you?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t mind it,” came a dull reply from behind. Harry swiveled around and saw Zabini standing in his doorway. He sneered across at him and continued, “Then we could all finally have some peace and quiet this year.”

Harry frowned, but before he could get a word in, the Slytherin added: “Next time, keep your lover’s quarrel to yourselves. Your incessant, puerile tantrum has gifted me a headache.”

At the mention of “love,” Harry’s had heart stopped and mouth ran dry. After Zabini retreated back into his hole, Harry returned his focus to Malfoy’s door.

He had to force himself to not knock again, but he knew there would be no answer no matter how hard he tried—he knew, because he’d attempted the same thing already a previous night. So, instead, Harry pulled a pre-prepared and folded note from his pocket and slipped it under the door. Then, he quickly escaped to the common room.

With no one else in the room, he was able to claim the wide windowsill wholly to himself. He stole a small pillow and thick woven blanket off one of the couches and settled on the sill, resting his cheek against the cold glass of the window. Below him, the greenhouses twinkled against the black night.

Slowly, the chill lulling him, Harry drifted off to sleep.

The next thing he knew, he was being throttled awake. Harry’s eyes snapped open, and as they adjusted to the light, he saw through the window that it was already well into late morning. The glass was dusted with cool rain drops, and above the grounds outside, a light drizzle was falling from white clouds.

Harry turned and met Hermione’s eyes. She loosened her grip on his shoulders and said, “I thought you might sleep the whole day away at this rate. I don’t know how you do it, though, with all the noise.”

Sure enough, he began to hear the chatter filling the common room, where many of his fellow eighth-years were already set up around the fire and playing games. Groaning, Harry stretched; as he did, he felt a satisfying crack in his back. He rubbed his eyes and asked, “Where’s Ron?”

Hermione sat down on the sill across from him and crossed her arms; she was wearing a warm wool sweater and kept a playful look in her eyes. She answered, “Out on the pitch with Seamus, Dean, and the others. He wanted to ask you, but well... You were in a very deep sleep.”

She leaned forward a little and asked in a hushed tone, “Did you have another one of those dreams?”

Harry started, shooting up in his seat and knocking his head against the window. “Ow,” he said, “Er, no, I mean— I didn’t have any dreams last night. That I remember.”

“But you _have_ had one?” she demanded, reading him well. Harry cursed her impossibly perceptive powers.

Rubbing his sore head, he figured, _Well, I don’t have to tell her_ everything. “Er, yeah, I guess I did. If I’m honest, it was really hard to tell.”

Hermione frowned. “This isn’t good, Harry,” she said. “Oh, I hope it doesn’t get any worse for you. Professor Flitwick still isn’t finished with the Mirror.”

“How is that going, by the way?” Harry asked, now trying to massage the stiffness out of his neck. Truthfully, he hadn’t put much thought toward the Mirror investigation—not since his detentions and the attack on Ackerley.

With a pat on his knee, Hermione smiled and said, “Why don’t we get you something to eat, and then I can catch you up on everything? We have missed you, you know.”

Harry returned the smile and agreed. “You have no idea how bored I’ve been this week.”

“Well, if you’d like something to do, I’ve got the perfect thing for you,” Hermione said. Together, they jumped off the sill, and Harry followed her out into the corridor. She continued, “I promised to help pitch in with the pumpkins today. We’re going to pick them and carve the nicer ones. The rest the elves are going to cook into soup. Would you like to join me?”

Harry grinned. He felt a pep to his step already. “It sounds brilliant, Hermione.”

They stopped off at the Great Hall so Harry could grab a handful to-go; since he was so late to rise, most of the food was gone or cold, but he didn’t mind it so much. He chewed on an orange slice as he walked out onto the grounds with Hermione.

She cast an umbrella charm over the both of them. The rain was so light it may as well have only been a mist, but it was cold against their skin, and the charm helped keep Harry’s food clean. As they walked, Hermione caught him up on what little information she had regarding the Mirror of Erised.

True to Flitwick’s word, the Professor was still hard at work on deconstructing the artifact’s charms, but it was a slow and labored process. At no surprise to Harry, Hermione had also taken it upon herself to do some research.

“Did you know,” she continued to rant as they headed down to the garden, “That actually, there _are_ other bewitched mirrors out there? And I’m not just talking about the one in _Snow White_.”

“No,” Harry mumbled between bites. “Really?”

Hermione stuffed her hand into a pocket, shivering slightly from the mist. “Well, they’re not exactly the same, of course. The Mirror of Erised is one you could still say is rather unique, but... there are others. For instance, I read in _Bewitchments for Modern Living_ about several enchanted mirrors. The closest I could find was a vanity mirror that reflects whatever’s on your mind.”

As they came up to the pumpkin patch, Harry finished off his food and stuffed his emptied napkin into his pocket. He imagined looking into the vanity mirror, and wondered what he might see. He blushed, and then quickly trying to recover, asked, “So it uses Legilimency?”

“Yes, definitely. However, it’s more of a surface spell, you know? Whatever the Mirror of Erised does, it goes much deeper into your mind.”

Harry nodded. Then, he looked out at all the pumpkins—which had grown so huge some of them may have been big enough to turn into a studio flat for the house-elves—and asked, “So, how are we supposed to pick these?”

Between the two of them, with the help of an aging, giant wooden cart and some combined levitation spells, they managed to pack the first load of pumpkins. Now, getting them up to the castle and into the Great Hall would be the hard part.

As they stood in concentrated thought, Hermione pouring over a book of labor spells, Harry was first to come up with a solution. They wandered into the shallow edge of the Forbidden Forest behind Hagrid’s garden, and from his satchel, Harry took out his small knife (used for Potions lessons—but stored for emergencies) and cut a thin line across his palm.

Holding out his now bleeding hand, he and Hermione waited in silence. The air around them was thick with cool humidity, though the mist couldn’t reach the forest floor through the dense canopy above. In almost no time at all, the cracking of branches underfoot announced the arrival of the beasts.

The thestrals were looking gaunt as ever, though the younger ones flanking their parents were proof enough that Hagrid was taking good care of the creatures. One of the taller and more daring thestrals trotted up to Harry immediately and began licking his wound. With Harry’s unharmed hand, he ran it over the bony skin along the beast’s neck.

By now, both Hermione and Ron were able to see thestrals; most students involved in the War were. He supposed even Malfoy could see them, though he had no way of knowing it for certain. Hermione stepped forward to pet one of the other beasts, saying to Harry, “This might sound a little insensitive, but I always did want to know what they looked like... And now, well— Now it just feels bad knowing the reason why, doesn’t it?”

They took two of the stronger beasts and led them to the cart. After hooking them up, Harry walked ahead to steer the thestrals and keep their path clear. The mist was beginning to lighten, as the sun was peeking through the blanket of clouds over the castle, and in that first glint of sunlight Harry saw something flicker in the distance.

The high-pitched, _humming_ flutter streaked by his head, blowing a breeze through his messy hair. Instinctively, Harry caught the small golden snitch in his hand.

“Where in the world did that come from?” Hermione asked.

“Dunno. Maybe it escaped from Ron’s game.”

“But do the snitches normally leave the Quidditch pitch like that?”

They were both looking into Harry’s open palm, where the snitch’s wings were softly beating back and forth. Harry frowned and answered, “I don’t think so.”


	13. The Golden Snitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?" — Dumbledore, _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_

It was well into the afternoon by the time Harry and Hermione had unloaded three cartloads of pumpkins upon the tables in the Great Hall. They left the remainder of pumpkin-picking to Hagrid’s other volunteers, and together they began to do the work of sorting and carving.

Overhead, visible through the enchanted ceiling, the sky was still overcast. To make up for the lingering darkness, all the torches against the hall’s stone walls were lit and casting a warm amber glow against the volunteers’ faces.

As Harry turned over each pumpkin, checking them for bruises and misshapen sides, he asked, “So, what made you sign up for pumpkin duty in the first place, Hermione?”

She was busy _Scourgifying_ the lot, her face pinched in concentration and her woolen sleeves bunched up around her elbows. She responded with a shrug. “It sounded fun. Why?”

Harry shrugged back. “Dunno. I suppose it just seemed a little beneath you.”

“But not you?” she asked, making a face at him.

“Fair enough,” he laughed. “But I guess I figured you’d be too busy studying for N.E.W.T.s, this year being the final stretch and all.”

“Oh,” Hermione sighed, “Of course I’ve been studying, but... I don’t know. This year’s been going too fast already, don’t you think?”

Harry’s brows rose in surprise. He paused his inspection on a suspiciously round pumpkin and looked over at her—the girl’s face was stitched in apprehension. “Too fast? Aren’t you looking forward to finishing?”

Biting her lip, Hermione tapped her pumpkin with a cleaning spell and passed it over to Harry. She looked him in the eyes and replied, “If I’m honest, Harry, I’m terrified.

“It’s not the exams,” she continued after a deep breath, “I can handle those. It’s... everything after. Studying, homework, classes, volunteering—I can do that. I’ve spent my whole life doing that, excellently I might add.” She emphasized the line with another round of _Scourgify_.

“But...” she shoved the pumpkin aside, looking glum. “Everything after is what I’m afraid of. When we finish, what are we going to have left? There’s not going to be any structure, and it’s not as if there’ll be anything keeping us on our toes like Voldemort. I mean, it’s going to be completely left to me at that point, and I don’t know if I can handle that.”

Harry was shocked. It was everything he’d been thinking since the summer, but coming from Hermione’s mouth, and he didn’t know how to even answer that. He’d naively assumed everyone else had their whole lives planned out, Hermione and Ron especially, and that it would be just Harry by himself lost in the ways of the professional world.

He cleared his throat and said, “Wow, Hermione... I mean... If anyone could handle it, surely it would be you. If you can’t do it, how will any of the rest of us ever manage?”

Hermione smirked. “You put too much faith in me. Both you and Ron are better at the practical stuff than I am. I need a guide to get anything done.”

“Well, I _do_ have faith in you, for good reason, too,” he said. “Besides, can you imagine how much worse it would be if we weren’t wizards? We’d be coffee runners, secretaries... Working in a video store, even. The options would be abysmal.”

“True,” Hermione smiled. “Oh, doesn’t it make you feel awful for the muggles? I mean, I know it’s a little bit different for you, but I still feel like I am a muggle in so many ways. I wish the wizarding world could work with them instead of hiding. Think of how beneficial it could be—for everyone.”

“When you’re Minister of Magic perhaps you can change all that,” Harry joked, though really, he didn’t think it was too far-fetched for his friend to aim so high.

“I don’t know,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “Would it be compromising my own values if I did go after a Ministry job, after everything that’s happened? We saw how easily they folded in the War.”

“But you’re exactly the kind of person who _should_ be working there, because you’d change it for the better.”

“...Then why are you giving up on the Auror position?”

Harry sighed and rolled his pumpkin aside. “I wouldn’t be in it to change it. I’m done with fighting their battles for them. But if you want to do it, Hermione, you should. Don’t think I’d hold it against you or anything.”

They both knew how much Harry and Ron had argued over it. Ron had a much more black-and-white approach to the issue, seeing the Aurors as only the opposing force to dark wizards. Harry wouldn’t blame him for wanting to join, but he couldn’t find it in his heart to do the same.

“Well, I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, and then she rolled another pumpkin in front of herself to clean. “It’s good that you stick to your convictions. A very admirable trait, by the way.”

Harry laughed. “To who? I’ve been dumped, and now even my detentions won’t have me. I’m fairly certain everyone thinks I’m still a nutcase.” A bit pathetically, he smacked his hands to the table after pushing another pumpkin aside. He looked at Hermione and said, “Do you know that Malfoy hasn’t spoken to me once since our detention was cut short?”

She seemed unsurprised. “Do you expect him to?”

“Yes!” he exclaimed much too loudly. Although he didn’t tell Ron and Hermione _everything_ about his new friendship with his former rival, they both knew how much footwork Malfoy had been doing to help push back against the Slytherins.

Harry cleared his throat and awkwardly added, “I actually, er— I was hoping with the extra free time now that everybody could, I don’t know... get to know each other. Better.”

Beside him, Hermione, who had been holding up one of the smaller pumpkins to clean its underside, dropped the whole thing to the table and earned it a bruise. Harry grabbed it and rolled it to the ‘ugly’ pile.

“You want Malfoy to hang out with _us_?” she gawked.

“Consider it an introductory phase,” Harry said, holding his hands up for defense.

Hermione’s thick hair shook viciously with her head. “No, Harry, I mean... If he were honest about wanting to redeem himself, he’d be a lot more active. He should have been here for Reconstruction. He could be here right now, volunteering. He keeps to himself, and I don’t see that ever changing.”

“But maybe he wanted to,” Harry challenged, “But he’s afraid of sticking out. He helped me when I was petrified, and he helped Stewart Ackerley, too!”

“Or maybe you’re putting words in his mouth,” Hermione said, looking at him as if he’d come down with a case of flu. “Besides, do you know what those two instances had in common, Harry? You.”

“So?” Harry asked. Sure, it took a lot of pulling of strings to get Malfoy to come out of his shell, but that didn’t mean the boy was hopeless. “Look, I’ll invite him down here right now, and you can see for yourself.”

He threw his wand to the air and sent his Patronus dashing off down the Great Hall, startling quite a few people. Hermione watched it go with a frown and then turned on Harry, saying, “That’s not the point. He’s said and done _awful_ things, and I know you haven’t forgotten them. I can’t give him a chance until he makes the opportunity himself, and I just don’t see him willing to put in the work for that.”

“He regrets it all, Hermione, he’s told me—” Harry protested, but she wouldn’t hear another word. It would be up to Malfoy to build the bridge, and it would take time—that, and a miracle.

Before their argument could come to a boil, Ron arrived in the hall. He was wet, covered in mist and sweat, and still had his Quidditch gear on. He ambled over to Hermione and planted a kiss on her cheek.

“How are the pumpkins?” he asked.

“Just fine,” Hermione said, still a little tight-lipped from the previous conversation. “Would you like to carve one?”

“Yeah, all right.” He set his keeper’s helmet upon the table and took one of the approved pumpkins from Hermione’s grasp. Ron looked up at Harry and asked, “What’s up with you, mate?”

“Nothing,” Harry said. “Nothing at all.”

~~~

It was nearing dusk—at least, that was what he could guess. Although the sun could not be seen behind the wall of clouds that encircled the vastness around him, its light streamed through, turning the sky a darkling pink and orange hue.

Draco was standing somewhere in the middle, though the world stretched on seemingly endlessly beyond the horizon, so it was hard to tell his exact placement. He was left standing in water, though it wasn’t high enough to reach his ankles; it merely kissed his shoes every time he budged. Beneath his feet were long wooden boards, and in fact, if it weren’t for the endless stretch of nothingness, he might have thought he was on the deck of an old ship.

He walked forward, the water lapping at his feet and wood creaking beneath, and kept an eye on the dark boards beneath him in case he was heading toward a trap. It wasn’t long until he finally came to an object of slight interest—it was an old lantern, set on the boards and burnt out. Cautiously, Draco picked it up and held it to his face.

As he inspected it, he hardly even noticed the world around him growing darker. It wasn’t until the blackness was seeping forward, only a few feet away from engulfing him, that he noticed the dark. Suddenly, it was like he was swallowed up, and everything turned to black.

With the sound of a striking match, the lantern, still held in his hand, lit on its own. Its flame was small, but it was enough to illuminate his face and chest. Draco swung it forward and around him, afraid of what could lurk beyond him in the darkness.

There was silence, except for the slapping of water against his footsteps, as Draco chose a direction and pushed forward. He soon found that keeping on the path, however, was a fool’s game, since he had no landmarks to draw upon. He felt disoriented, and thought he may as well be walking in circles for all he knew.

After turning aimlessly, he finally saw a flash. Draco stopped and walked forward, still holding the lantern aloft. His light had obviously caught on something, and it was bouncing back, leading his way toward it. The closer he grew to it, the more he recognized—first, a silver trim, and then...

The light fell upon the oily glass surface, showing Draco his own white face in the Mirror’s reflection. He held the lantern nearly against the glass, searching for what he might find. His breaths were coming out in puffs, fogging the mirror surface. Draco rubbed his sleeve against it to clear the fog away.

When he retracted his arm, he startled. The lantern fell from his hand to the ground; however, it didn’t crack or burn out. Its feeble light still gave Draco enough luminance to gaze fearfully into the Mirror, and to see, appearing behind his shaking frame, a pair of blood-red eyes with pupils slit like a snake.

Draco snapped awake in shock. A cold sweat was brimming on his forehead, his breathing was rattled, and he was lain on top of a Slytherin comforter.

“My goodness, Draco, are you all right?” Pansy asked. She was seated at the desk across from him, her black hair tied back in a messy bun. Blinking, it was all coming back to him: he’d come over to Pansy’s room earlier that morning to work on a Transfiguration essay, and he supposed he must have dozed off.

“Just a bad dream,” he choked out as he sat upright.

“Well,” Pansy said, a bit too sweetly for his liking, “This should make you feel all better.”

Draco looked over at her, and saw with horror that Pansy was holding a folded note in-between her fingers. “Did you go through my pockets?” he asked, scandalized.

Pansy smirked. “Never expose yourself to a Slytherin, Draco. You know that.”

“Give it back,” he muttered, practically falling over himself on the bed. Pansy held it from his reach and tutted.

“Oh, please, I haven’t even read it yet. I’ve been waiting so patiently. _Malfoy_ , it says,” she grinned. “I _wonder_ who that could be from. Let’s take a look, shall we?”

“Pansy, please—”

“Hush,” she continued. “I have your best interest at heart.” Then, she dramatically unfolded the note, and began, “ _My Dearest Draco_ —”

“It doesn’t even say that!” Draco shouted. He knew, because he’d read the damn thing about ten times already since that blasted Potter had stuffed it under his doorframe.

_Malfoy_ ,

_Since you have decided to be an absolute git and ignore me, I’ve resorted to writing this letter. Note how bad I am at this by my sloppy handwriting, and know that this is your doing. I hope the message gets across._

_Please don’t fall into the assumption that just because we aren’t forced to hang around anymore because of detentions suddenly means we’re being forced to go back to our old ways of keeping distance (or hexing each other). I myself assumed we were getting along just fine on our own. If I’m wrong about this, please announce it via letter, so that I may face my apparent stupidity with the least amount of shame._

_Otherwise, TALK TO ME you bastard._

_Harry_

The words “talk to me” were underlined three times, Draco recalled. As Pansy finished reading the note with merciless glee, he hung his head in embarrassment.

“He forgot to add, ‘I love you,’ and, ‘Please go out with me,’” Pansy cackled.

“Shut up, Pans.” Irritated, Draco snatched the note from her hands, folded it, and tucked it safely away, deep into his robes. “You’d think I ran away for a year. He’s impossible to please.”

Pansy crept over to the bed, sat beside him, and leaned toward him with a wide _I told you so_ expression played upon her face. She said, “It must be so hard for you, Draco, being yearned for by the Savior of the free world.”

“There’s no yearning,” Draco spat. “He’s unhinged. Once his Gryffindors have his attention again, he won’t notice my absence.”

“So, why _won’t_ you talk to him?” Pansy asked.

Draco, of course, was not about to tell her anything even remotely suspicious, or he would never hear the end of it. He merely said, “I need to focus on classwork.”

“Right.” Pansy rolled her eyes. “That’s why you took a nap on my bed.”

“It’s not my fault you’re so dull.”

“And you’re a prat.”

Suddenly, they were both sent reeling back as a huge, ghostly blue stag phased through Pansy’s closed door. Its pearly white eyes locked onto Draco, and from its mouth came Potter’s voice, saying:

“Malfoy, come to the Great Hall. I’ve got work for you to do.”

Once it disappeared, Pansy asked aghast, “What the bloody Salazar was _that_?”

Draco grumbled, “Potter’s stupid Patronus. I suppose he thinks I’m meant to just come at his beck and call.”

“Well, don’t let me stop you,” Pansy said after finally calming down, her hand pressed to her chest. “There’s work to be done. Shall I go with you?”

“No!” Draco shouted. The last thing he needed was Pansy watching his every move around Potter. “I’m not going.”

“I’ll drag you there myself.”

“Fuck off,” he breathed. He was mad, because secretly he really wanted to know what Potter wanted with him, but if he went now, he might as well throw his pride off the highest tower he could find. But he really, really, _really_ did want to know.

He stood from the bed and grumbled, “There better be a dead body down there, or if there isn’t, I’ll fucking kill him so there is one.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Harry was finally starting in on his first pumpkin. Ron and Hermione were already carving their own—Ron was attempting to design a lion’s head for the Gryffindor set, and Hermione was fast at work on an intricate Hogwarts crest.

Harry was not feeling nearly as ambitious; his design work, even with the aid of his wand, was shoddy at best, so he didn’t want to muck it all up too fast. He decided to try his hand at carving an owl, in memory of Hedwig, and set himself to the task.

By the time he’d finished the silhouette, set into the pumpkin’s skin so it would glow, Harry looked up at just the right moment to see Malfoy marching toward him. His heart skipped a beat.

Harry set his tools down and waved. The Slytherin was dressed down in weekend attire, which, for a prat like him, meant a clean-pressed white collared shirt with a green vest, and black slacks. He also wore his Slytherin tie loosely around his unbuttoned collar, which Harry was staring at far too harshly. Blinking, he snapped his eyes up to Malfoy’s.

“How’s it going?” Harry asked, his mouth dry.

Beside him, both Hermione and Ron startled out of their concentration. Once Ron had locked eyes on Malfoy, Harry knew there would be trouble. He tried to head it off by announcing, “Malfoy’s going to help us.”

Tactfully, Hermione placed her hand around Ron’s arm and gripped it—hard. Across the table, Malfoy looked down at the pumpkins, frowned, and looked at Harry. He asked, “What’s the work you said you had for me?”

Harry tapped his hand against the pumpkin in front of him. This gesture did nothing to soothe the critical look on Malfoy’s face, but Harry wasn’t about to let up once he’d finally gotten the Slytherin’s attention again.

“We’re carving pumpkins in preparation for the feast,” Harry explained. “You could do one for Slytherin, if you want. I don’t think anyone’s done it yet.”

“Actually,” Hermione interrupted, “It would be better if you could carry those over to the house-elves.” She pointed to the ‘ugly’ pile of pumpkins, which were being saved to turn into food, and then gestured further down the hall to where some of the kitchen’s elves were looking over the selection.

Although Malfoy did not at all appear pleased at this suggestion, he didn’t look like he was going to argue. Instead, he nodded shortly, looked at Hermione and said lowly, “Granger... Um, th— Thank you for helping us with setting up the wards, initially. They were useful.”

Hermione blinked. “...You’re welcome,” she said, perplexed. Next to her, Ron stood stiff as a board, both confused and fuming at Malfoy’s casual address. He glared as Malfoy walked away, carrying an armful of pumpkins across the hall.

Harry turned his head to watch him go, and couldn’t help but smile to himself, feeling wistful, as he saw the Slytherin try to speak with the elves. As soon as Kreacher spotted Malfoy, the house-elf nearly tripped over himself shuffling over to help him.

“Can you believe him?” He heard Ron whine. Harry snapped his attention back to his friends and saw Ron was still glaring down the hall. Well, at least Harry hadn’t been the only one staring at Malfoy.

“Let’s just try to focus on the task at hand,” Hermione pleaded. Ron huffed but nodded, and then he leaned over to peer at Harry’s work.

He hummed. “I’m surprised you didn’t pick a snitch,” he said.

Harry shrugged. “That sounds difficult, anyway.” Then, he remembered the actual snitch sitting in his pocket. He drew it out and held it up to Ron. “Is this yours?” he asked.

Ron shook his head. “No. Although, now that you mention it, I did hear from Ginny that Madam Hooch has been raging all week. Apparently, she was missing a snitch from the school’s set.”

“Really?”

“That’s not all, either,” Ron continued. “Some git went and tore up two of her brooms, and you know, the school doesn’t give her much of a budget to work with, anyway. Now she’s got to dip into her savings to replace the old ones.”

“Maybe we could start a fundraiser,” Hermione said, distracted, as she worked on her carving.

Harry’s heart stopped beating. He tentatively asked, “What happened to the brooms?”

Ron shrugged. “One of ‘em sounded like it was burnt up pretty bad. You could ask Ginny about it. She’s the one who found them like that.”

Now his heart was hammering against his chest. Quickly, he looked down the hall and searched for Malfoy. The boy was still bent down and speaking with the elves, fortunately unaware of the revelation.

Harry pinched himself. His breathing was beginning to become uncontrollable. “Harry, are you okay?” Hermione asked from beside him.

_Whump_.

All three of them froze in shock at the sound, even Harry, whose heart was still threatening to break free from his chest. Only mere inches away from him, sticking out of his half-carved pumpkin, was a dagger. Its blade gleamed under the Hall’s candlelight, and the black hilt was still quivering from its deep impact in the pumpkin’s skin.

Harry abruptly turned in place and saw the snickering form of Graham Pritchard walking toward him.

“Sorry about that,” Pritchard began with a tight grin. “My aim must’ve been off. It’s too bad it didn’t curve a little further to the side.”

Harry’s teeth clenched against his angry frown. The only thing that had been beside the pumpkin was his own exposed back. On the other side of the table, Ron threw his carving tools to the wood and nearly crawled over the tabletop to reach the Slytherin.

“You could have bloody killed someone like that!” he shouted.

Breath hitched and quickly thinking, Harry pulled the dagger free of the pumpkin, some of its gooey amber guts coming out with the blade, and held it up for all to see. He looked squarely at Pritchard and demanded, “Is this the same weapon you used to stab Stewart Ackerley?”

In an instant, Hermione and Ron were on each side of him, wands drawn. It was enough to send Pritchard stumbling backwards, and he dropped his grin. Behind him, his minions Higgs and Baddock stood by apprehensively. Both of them seemed to have been actually trying to carve a pumpkin, Harry noticed with amusement.

“It was only a joke,” Pritchard spat. It was clear he was feeling cornered.

Ron shot forward, grabbing the Slytherin’s robes with a white-knuckled fist, and shouted, “You think that’s funny, do you? And where were you during the War, you snake? Cowering in the dungeons, I’d wager.”

The grimace displayed on Pritchard’s face seemed to suggest that Ron had it exactly right. The boy, struggling and unable to free himself of Ron’s hold, panted, “I swear I didn’t do anything to Ackerley.”

“But you know who did?” Harry demanded.

“No,” Pritchard wheezed. “All we ever did was play around with him with some spells. I never touched him.” After taking a moment to breathe, he added, “It’s just the same shit everybody else does in this school.”

Harry relaxed his shoulders and let his arms fall to his side. Even though Pritchard was a total prat, it seemed that he was telling the truth. Even if he could throw the dagger across the courtyard and hit Ackerley, it’s not as if he would have been able to retrieve it afterwards, and no dagger had been seen or mentioned after the attack.

After a moment, Ron roughly let Pritchard go, pushing him backwards against the benches. The Slytherin had only seconds to mutter, “They should have torched the whole school,” before a giant, floating pumpkin suddenly appeared above his head and fell onto him.

The pumpkin fell easily, its sides splitting and sliding away off the boy’s wide shoulders, covering the stone floor around his feet in an orange mess. Pritchard’s bright red hair was turned a slimy yellow-orange by the guts of the gourd. For a moment, all Harry could hear was the sticky drips of pulp rolling off the Slytherin’s arms.

Shockingly, Jude Higgs was the first to laugh, immediately slapping his hand to his mouth to stop himself. Even Malcolm Baddock was fighting a grin on his face.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione all quickly turned to look down the hall, where Malfoy was standing smugly next to Kreacher. The elf’s hand was still raised in position to snap, should one pumpkin not be enough to humiliate Pritchard with.

Ron gaped at him. It was as if he didn’t know whether to laugh at Pritchard’s state, or to defiantly stay silent because _Malfoy_ had been the one to set up the prank. Harry himself was too shell-shocked to move, so when Pritchard roughly shoved him aside to run at Malfoy, he hardly even noticed the movement.

Pritchard was halfway down the hall when another pumpkin appeared, this time on the floor in front of his feet, and caused him to fall on top of it. The gourd broke open and splashed all the surrounding students in its goo. Now, the whole hall was laughing at the Slytherin, whose face was currently stuck to the floor by all the syrupy pulp.

“I’b gonna fubking murder you, Malboy,” Pritchard tried to splutter out.

It wasn’t long until Filch was running between the tables with a mop raised like a pitchfork. The old caretaker was scowling something awful and screaming about ‘ruddy kids’ and ‘clean floors’. He smacked the mop down on Pritchard’s sticky head, nearly indistinguishable from the floor now, while the boy was moaning his complaints and trying to free himself from the muck.

“Wha’s all this, then?” came Hagrid’s booming voice from behind the caretaker. The half-giant had been looking over the volunteers’ work, but all the commotion had brought him around and now he was looking down at Filch’s assault on Pritchard’s orange body with a quizzical face.

Filch paused mid-hit and sneered up at Hagrid. “Oh, good, it’s you,” he hissed between crooked teeth. He pointed accusingly up at Hagrid and shouted, “Look what you and your ruddy overgrown pumpkins have done to my floor, you big oaf! Take it all away now! I can’t even beat this one down.”

To illustrate his point, Filch slammed his mop down upon Pritchard’s gooey head—once, twice, three and four times—causing the boy to whimper out a muffled wail each time. Hagrid stared down at the Slytherin and said to Filch, “I believe that’s a student down there, Mr. Filch.”

Still growling, Filch pulled his mop to his chest and looked down with a hard, glaring eye. Pritchard finally unstuck his head with a _plop_ and moaned again, swaying like he’d been stunned.

“Eh... Let me just take care o’ this, then,” Hagrid said awkwardly. He scooped the confused, sticky Slytherin up into his arms without any protest and headed off to the hospital wing with the boy. More students broke out into laughter as they watched Pritchard’s head lolling off Hagrid’s shoulder.

“I suppose you could say Graham’s had his just desserts, now,” Malfoy said with a smirk as he, Harry, and the others walked back toward the tables, well away from Filch’s fervent cleaning.

As they came back to the benches, Harry tried to chuckle out a “Yeah,” but his words caught tightly in his throat at the proximity between the two of them.

“What is that?” Malfoy asked him. Harry followed the boy’s gaze down to his hand, where he still gripped Pritchard’s dagger, long-forgotten and still dripping pumpkin guts.

Harry passed it to him and explained Pritchard’s skill of dagger-throwing, which Malfoy had not seen. He’d only witnessed the aftermath.

As soon as the hilt landed in Malfoy’s open palm, Ron was quick to rush forward and swipe the dagger away before, presumably, Malfoy took the dagger and began stabbing Harry with it. Of course, fortunately unbeknownst to Ron and Hermione, he’d already been stabbed in the heart by Malfoy. Just not using the traditional method.

Ron turned on Harry then, shoving his shoulders, and accused, “Have you gone bloody insane?” _Yes, probably_ , Harry thought.

Malfoy scoffed, flicking the pulp off his hands, and said, “Don’t flatter yourself, Weasley. If I were going to stab you, I wouldn’t be so foolish as to do it in broad daylight in front of all these witnesses. Now, if you’d like to arrange something...” Malfoy smirked, and in return Ron’s face turned red from anger.

“Don’t,” Harry started without even thinking, “He’d pummel you.” When he saw Malfoy’s betrayed expression, complete with a pout, he added, “I mean, have you seen how big his arms are?”

Hermione couldn’t seem to help herself at that point—she laughed. It seemed to ease the mood, Harry laughing along with her, while both Ron and Malfoy still stood tense and looking unsure of whose side they were supposed to be on.

“It’s like you all _want_ detention,” she said in disbelief.

“ _I do_ ,” Harry said without a hint of sarcasm, and Hermione laughed even harder.

After an hour of trying to fix his half-carved pumpkin, Harry gave up and waited for Ron and Hermione to finish theirs, while Malfoy worked diligently on his own carving far, far down the table from them. Harry stared at him often enough for Hermione to catch his eye and shake her head in an obvious _I’m so tired of your antics_ way.

Once they had all finished and cleaned up, Harry walked a little behind the other two, waiting for Malfoy to catch up to him—which he did. Harry said rather lamely, “Er, sorry, this didn’t end up being very exciting, did it?”

Malfoy sighed and said, “I have to admit, I was expecting a dead body when I got down here. However, the look on Graham’s face was priceless.”

Harry blinked. “So you _want_ to find a dead body?”

“No. But after a while, your expectations are set too high, and going through a normal, boring day just doesn’t sit right with you anymore,” Malfoy said, albeit a bit playfully, and shrugged.

Harry, gaping uselessly because he thought it sounded too much like something he himself felt the whole week, was offended to hear Hermione exasperatedly mutter to Ron, “Oh my God, they’re even starting to sound the same.”

~~~

Later that night, after everyone had eaten their fill of dinner and the fire in the Quad Tower common room had been reduced to a smoldering ember, Harry found himself on the first floor of the boys’ dormitories, knocking lightly on Malfoy’s door.

“What?” the Slytherin asked rather shrewdly after opening his door. He squinted at Harry as if he thought he might be up to something.

Harry awkwardly cleared his throat, trying to avoid Malfoy’s locked gaze, and said, “I was thinking you might like to... Er— That maybe we could take a walk around the grounds? Make sure everything’s all right?”

He finally snapped his eyes back to Malfoy, hoping to see some sign of willingness there. Malfoy rolled his eyes, but he did say, “Fine. Give me a minute.”

After they had both put on their warmer cloaks, they headed off down the fourth-floor corridor together, passing the library’s restricted section and turning toward the grand staircase. As Harry took to the steps, sliding his hand along the bannister, he asked, “So, are you done with avoiding me now?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” replied Malfoy, deflecting as usual. As if Harry could forget the boy’s sudden 180° turn on him, declaring, ‘ _It’s over_.’

Harry looked harshly at the Slytherin’s face and said, “I’ll take this to mean you read my letter.” Then, he smiled to himself and added, “Do you have some kind of mood cycle, Malfoy? Maybe give me a schedule next time.”

They were halfway down the stairs now. Malfoy chuckled and answered, “This is just what you have to deal with if you want to be friends with me, Potter.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Harry replied, smiling.

Once out on the grounds, Harry shivered and pulled his cloak tighter around his exposed neck. The closer they crawled toward Hallowe’en, the more frigid the nights were becoming. His breaths were coming out as big white puffs of air against the dark night, and he crept closer toward Malfoy, seeking his warmth. It sent his heart pumping.

_This is completely normal_ , Harry tried to tell himself as they began their walk down the slope. First, they went down to the stables near Hagrid’s hut, and saw that the animals hadn’t yet been disturbed. Then, they started off further down the southeastern slopes of the grounds, passing the lightly swaying Whomping Willow and staying astride the sidelines of the forest.

Just as they had cleared the willow’s reach, a rough wind kicked up, whistling through the trees and sending a rain of reddening leaves brushing past their shoulders. Harry instinctively leaned into Malfoy’s side for heat. Surprisingly to him, Malfoy didn’t budge; perhaps it was because the winds were so strong, but they stood there for a long moment like that, pressed against each other and not daring to speak as the air whipped at their cold faces.

Something ruffled beyond the trees. Harry turned to look, blinking against the blackness of the night, and was even more sso blinded by something flying into his face. He reached his hand up and grabbed it—the thing was soft like wool, and Harry realized as he pulled it away that he was holding his lost Gryffindor scarf.

“I was wondering where that’d run off to,” Harry muttered between chattering lips, and he wrapped it delicately around his freezing chin. He turned back toward Malfoy and said, “I think I lost it the last time we were out here. It snagged on a branch and I forgot about it.”

Tentatively, Malfoy asked, “What do you mean?” He appeared confused.

“It was when—” Harry’s voice dropped off. He had been picturing the scene of Malfoy being dragged away, and then he remembered that apparently those events were _real_ , but Malfoy didn’t know that. Harry cleared his throat and said, “Never mind. Just thinking of a dream again.”

“Right,” Malfoy said. They left it at that and continued on once the wind had calmed down.

Together, they trailed around the encroaching curve of the east side of the castle. Harry looked up and could see a faint pink light coming off the Divination Tower’s windows, and a thick aromatic smoke billowing out of the seams, wafting down toward them. He thought it smelled heavily of brandy and sage.

He and Malfoy continued on alongside the glow of the greenhouses until they came to the edges of a marsh along the lake’s easterly shoreline. Harry spun around and looked up at the Quad Tower; it was really the first time he’d thought to get a good look at it on the outside, though it looked pretty much like any other tower on the castle’s exterior walls.

“Do you think many people will use the tower when we’re gone?” he asked breezily.

“The real question is if it will serve its intended purpose,” Malfoy answered while staring up at the tower along with him. “I think students will always be inclined to House rivalries. That’s the point of the House Cup, after all.”

“Hmm,” Harry mused. He turned around, shut his eyes, and leaned against the glass of the greenhouse. The heat from within warmed his back. Sinking against it, he allowed himself to linger in his thoughts, picturing the Quad Tower opened up to the Houses, and the little first-years approaching on their boats.

Harry slowly opened his eyes and looked at Malfoy. He said, “Just imagine it: A Gryffindor, a Slytherin, a Hufflepuff, and a Ravenclaw. All best friends.”

“That could work,” Malfoy drawled, “For the first couple of years. And then, just as it’s always been, they’ll split off to their separate ways.”

Harry frowned. “That’s not true. I’ve got friends in other houses. Luna, and—”

“Yes, but those aren’t your best friends, Potter,” Malfoy interjected. “Even you have mostly stuck to your House. It’s common sense; after all, they’re the people you’re forced to interact with every day. If you don’t become friends with them, then you’ll be miserable for seven years."

“But what about us?”

Malfoy put on an annoyed face. “What about it, Potter?” he asked shortly.

“We’re good friends,” Harry pointed out, his heart speeding up again. He felt he had a point to make, and Malfoy wasn’t helping him with it.

“We also tried to kill each other, multiple times,” Malfoy rebuked.

Harry pointed his finger and said, “Exactly. And yet, here we are, living in the Quad Tower and being friends. Maybe it works after all.”

Malfoy scoffed, apparently unable to let this belief about the Houses go. “The only reason _this_ ,” he replied, gesturing between the two of them by swirling his hand, “was able to happen is because I—”

He snapped his mouth shut. Harry stared, leaning forward slightly, and begged, “Yes?”

Sneering, Malfoy begrudgingly continued: “Because I always wanted to... To...” Harry had never seen him struggle so much with a sentence. Blinking rapidly, Malfoy said finally, “I always wanted to be an acquaintance. Of yours. Or... Something like that. I hated being on the sidelines like some half-baked villain.”

“You had a weird way of showing it,” Harry joked.

“That’s because I still had my pride, you pathetic git. Did you expect me to grovel?”

“No, although, it would have been nice if you hadn’t threatened muggleborns so much as a twelve-year-old.”

“Fine, you win—it was a little bit more than just pride,” Malfoy conceded, obviously displeased about it.

“So,” Harry grinned, “If we’re friends now, does that mean you’ve lost your pride?”

“I’m fairly certain I lost that a while ago,” he answered. “Somewhere between sixth year and you pulling me out of a fire.”

“What about third year when Hermione decked you? Or that time the snitch was right by your ear, but you were too busy looking at me—” Malfoy punched him in the shoulder, though he didn’t feel much of the impact under his layers of cloak and robes.

“Shut up,” Malfoy said without any real venom. He started laughing at almost the same time as Harry did. Malfoy brought both his fists down this time against him, even weaker than his first punch. As they laughed, a little eccentrically from the cold, Harry pressed his hands against Malfoy’s limp arms, feeling the rough cloak texture against his wool gloves.

They were so close—Harry’s heart was practically vibrating, radiating a warmth that was starting to make him sweat with his back still against the greenhouse glass. His cloudy white breaths intermingled with Malfoy’s, swirling around their heads and rising up to mix among the steam coming off the greenhouses.

It would take almost nothing for him to lean forward, barely even a few inches, to meet Malfoy’s lips with his own and kiss him right there. His heart was erratically _thumping_ against his sternum now just thinking about it. As he inched forward, not even daring to breathe, Malfoy pulled off of him, seemingly unaware of the approach.

Malfoy stood straight, rubbing the back of his neck, and looked around. He said, “We should keep moving. We still have half the grounds left to cover.”

“Right,” Harry replied, swallowing thickly. He pried himself off the glass and began to walk behind Malfoy, without another word said between them. All Harry could hear was his own heartbeats loud against his ears.

The walk along the southern edge of the castle was a lot harder than either had anticipated. The marsh beside the forest quickly ran into the high cliffs on the southern side of the grounds, butting up against the sprawl of the greenhouses. It left them little room to walk, so they ended up cutting across the Herbology courtyard and going back inside the castle.

They exited again as they crossed the bridge, Harry looking down at the single light of the lake’s boathouse as they did. Once they’d arrived at the entrance hall, they decided to just cross the castle and exit through the northern doors again, veering left this time.

“Think we should check inside the pitch?” Harry asked. Beside him, Malfoy was oddly silent. When no answer came, Harry looked back toward the boy and said, “Malfoy?”

“Um... No,” Malfoy muttered. “No, let’s just check the stables again and then call it a night. It’s getting too cold for this.”

After swiftly covering the west side of the grounds, they curved back toward Hagrid’s hut and walked down the slope. Harry checked the time—it was nearing eleven o’clock. If the stables were to be disturbed, then surely it would have happened by now.

Once they saw that the stables were still locked, he and Malfoy dutifully began the walk back to the tower. Harry felt a little dissatisfied that nothing seemed amiss, but—well, he figured it was better than anything worse happening.

He was also, admittedly, a little annoyed with himself. He’d had the perfect opportunity to get closer to Malfoy (physically, even) and squandered it. _Eugh_ , he thought, rubbing his head as an ache began to set in. What was he thinking? He didn’t know what Malfoy wanted with him. He didn’t even know what _he_ wanted with Malfoy. No, it was probably for the best that nothing happened at all.

He picked up his pace, having fallen a bit behind the Slytherin as they finally made it back to the castle doors. They quickly swept inside, grateful for the warmth that came from the torches lining the walls.

Harry followed at pace beside Malfoy along the corridor toward the stairs; neither of them were speaking much anymore, ever since leaving the greenhouses. It made Harry wonder if maybe the Slytherin knew what he’d tried to do after all.

As they turned near the entrance hall doors, Harry stopped in his tracks. He’d heard a whistle of wind in his ear, and when he looked toward the sound, he saw one of the doors slightly swinging, as if someone had just passed through.

“Malfoy, wait,” he whispered. He silently crept nearer to the doors and motioned for Malfoy to do the same. The door was still vibrating as he peered through the glass to the outside courtyard. Harry froze, and his heart went still.

He blinked and furiously rubbed his eyes as he pulled the door open. _No_ , he thought, he couldn’t be seeing things right. The wind rushed him, sharply biting his face. His heart began to coldly hammer against him, but he kept on, and he stumbled out into the chilled stone courtyard and gaped.

Lying still on the stone was the rumpled form of a body—a student, robed in black—and blood was pooling, already beginning to freeze, underneath the person. Harry nearly fell forward. He went down onto his knees beside the person and carefully pulled the robes aside.

There were several daggers sticking out of their back, like horrible black thorns, the blades dug deep and bloody into the person’s muscle. The robes slid back, the hood tugging along with it, until it came away from the student’s face. It was dark, and hard to see, but as Harry leaned in his suspicions turned to fear and then to reality, as he took in the mess of thick, cartoonishly red hair and wide shoulders.

Harry didn’t even notice that Malfoy had come up beside him until he heard him loudly, shockedly whisper in his ear, “He’s dead.”

Yes, Harry knew the signs too well now—especially the cold, lifeless pallor of a dying person’s skin; but he refused to believe it, thinking maybe it could be a trick of the light... Yet the body hadn’t stirred at all as they kneeled there.

Trying to stop himself from becoming sick, clasping his hand to his mouth, Harry shot his wand up to the sky and breathed a Patronus charm between his fingers. His stomach curled underneath him as he leaned ever closer, hoping to be wrong, as he touched the boy’s icy face and turned it ever so slightly, and saw the dead, blue-eyed expression of Graham Pritchard looking back at him.


	14. Backstabbing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year! ⭐ I finally have a new chapter to share with you all. Enjoy!

Harry was stuck holding Pritchard’s cold, lifeless face in his hand, too afraid to move, thinking that if he just held on, he could save him. He couldn’t even take the time to wonder why it was Pritchard, or why there were daggers stuck in his back, or who had done it—he could only kneel there, stiff and cold as the frost forming on his cheeks, and stare in disbelief at Pritchard’s dead eyes.

The boy’s eyelashes were beginning to freeze, Harry noticed. There was also a single, frozen tear trail along the curve of his thick cheek. Harry shivered, trying to will his thoughts away, not wanting to get caught up in wondering what the boy’s last moments were like... Not yet.

It seemed like hours had passed while he and Malfoy sat breathless beside the body, but eventually, steps were heard advancing toward them. It was Madam Pomfrey, he knew, because he’d just sent her the Patronus call.

Harry felt himself being pulled off of Pritchard’s face, and before he realized it, the boy’s body was being carried away by a spell, and he was being tugged by Malfoy down the corridor and up to the hospital wing.

Headmistress McGonagall was already waiting inside when they arrived. Harry didn’t know how she knew to be there. He felt himself moved to a chair, while his whole world felt like it was swimming, and he didn’t come back into his consciousness until he heard Malfoy speak:

“What is that?” the Slytherin cautiously asked. Blinking, Harry lifted his head and turned toward the noise. Malfoy was sitting closer to the bed where Pritchard’s body lay, and he was peering at Madam Pomfrey’s hand, which held a flask.

The matron carefully capped the tiny bottle in her hand. Glumly, she responded, “There was a tear frozen to Mr. Pritchard’s cheek. I’m afraid it may give us the answer to what happened to the poor boy.”

“But that’s good, isn’t it?” Harry asked rather groggily. The others seemed surprised to hear him speak. He continued, “We should look at it now.”

He was about to stand, but McGonagall stopped him, using her wand to force him back against the cushion. She demanded, “ _You_ will do no such thing, Mr. Potter. This is for myself and Madam Pomfrey to examine.”

Malfoy was still clearly confused. He asked, “What do you mean ‘examine’?”

Pomfrey explained, “We can use a Pensieve, Mr. Malfoy, to hopefully see what he has seen. Within every tear is a memory—whatever memory it is, is so powerful in its harassment of our emotions, that the only way to cope is it expel it from the body. So, when we cry, the memories that have made us cry are captured in those tears.

“Whatever Mr. Pritchard has experienced will most likely be captured in this one,” she said, holding up the flask. “As horrible as it may seem, we are lucky for the overnight freeze, or we may never have found any evidence of what’s happened to him.”

After a long beat of silence, Harry leaned forward and asked in a cold gasp, “Madam Pomfrey, is there anything... Any way he can be saved?”

He hoped that maybe the cold had only slowed the boy’s heart, not stopped it; that maybe the freeze had been what gave such a pallor to his skin; that maybe because of Pritchard’s build, the daggers couldn’t embed too deeply...

“Wizards are strong,” calmly answered McGonagall, “But they are not immortal.”

“But...” Harry said defiantly, “No one was supposed to die this year. All of that was supposed to be behind us.”

“Death will always be both behind us and ahead of us, Mr. Potter,” answered Pomfrey. “It’s the one fate none of us can escape—and some face it much sooner than others, I’m afraid.”

“We should do _something!_ ” Harry yelled and smacked his balled fists against the chair arms. Beside him, Malfoy startled at his outburst.

Harry was frustrated, feeling like he was the only one interested in _trying_ to find an answer, that everyone else seemed to have given up on Pritchard so easily. Despite whatever the boy had done in his life, dammit, he was worth fighting for.

He was about to open his mouth again when McGonagall stood up, gripping her cane, and fixed him with a severe glare. “That is quite enough of that,” she demanded. “There is nothing left that can be done for this boy.”

After a lengthy pause, she said a little softer, “I’m sorry, but this is all we can do for him now.” She turned to Pomfrey and gave her instructions: “Please have one of the elves deliver this safely to my office. In the meantime, I must go speak with Professor Slughorn at once. When I have the information I need, he and I will return here.

“As for the two of you,” she continued and turned on Harry and Malfoy, “Please try to stop running headfirst into trouble.”

Harry said nothing, though he gave a short nod to appease her. Truly, he always wanted to be the one to run into trouble, because at least then he could try to do something about it. What did any of them expect? If he and Malfoy hadn’t been there to find Pritchard, then who knew how much longer he might have lain in the courtyard before Filch or another student found his body?

Not that it did him any good, though. Harry shut his eyes harshly and silently cursed himself. If he had only been quicker to return to the castle, or if he and Malfoy had lingered longer at the greenhouses... They had passed through the courtyard probably only minutes prior to Pritchard’s assault. Harry could have saved him, had he only had the time.

“I think it would be best,” Pomfrey began, snapping Harry out of his thoughts, “If the two of you returned to your dormitories.”

McGonagall had already disappeared out into the corridor, leaving Harry and Malfoy behind with Pomfrey and the dead body of Graham Pritchard. The matron began delicately covering the boy with the hospital’s white sheets. She would probably have a full day ahead of dealing with whatever family of his still remained after the War.

Harry stood first. He took one last, long look at the sheeted form of Pritchard before marching toward the doors. Malfoy nearly had to run to catch up to him. As soon as Harry’s foot hit the hallway, he was drawing the Marauder’s map from his bag.

He quickly found the dot labeled ‘Minerva McGonagall,’ still heading on her way to Slughorn’s chambers. Without even stopping, or thinking, really, Harry grabbed Malfoy by the wrist and dragged him at a run up to the second floor.

They turned down the long corridor to the griffin statue. Moonlight was streaming through the tall northerly-facing windows, bathing both of them in its pale blue glow as they fled down the stone walkway.

“What are we doing?” Malfoy asked, out of breath, as Harry continued to drag him by the arm.

“We’re going to find out what Pritchard saw before he died,” he grumbled as they came to a stop in front of the stone griffin, turned orange by the two torches on each side of it.

“We’ll be expelled,” Malfoy whispered.

Harry shook his head, checking the map again. “No, we won’t.”

In front of them, a rumbling voice came from the stone statue, saying:

“I am something that takes many years to build, but in an instant I will topple with a single misstep. I am both stronger than any man, and yet weaker than a withering leaf. My resilience depends on the hearts of those who share me. What am I?”

 _Fuck_ , Harry thought. It had been a long time since the Headmistress gave them all the password, and he was left dumbfounded, unable to recall it in his state. It had been something simple... but what was it?

“Trust,” said Malfoy, as if he himself wasn’t certain of the answer. After only a moment, the griffin moved aside, and Harry ran up the staircase.

The doors were left open, and even the vial was left sitting out, perfectly visible at the center of McGonagall’s desk. Harry didn’t dare look up at Dumbledore’s portrait. He snatched up the vial and ran to the Pensieve cabinet, ushering Malfoy along and shoving the map into his confused hands.

He quickly showed Malfoy how to use it and told him, practically pleading, “If you see her get anywhere close to here, pull me out. But _only_ if she’s close. Got it?”

He didn’t really wait for Malfoy to give a response. With a _pop_ , the vial opened in his hand and Harry poured the tear into the silver waters of the Pensieve dish. He shoved his head into the liquid and began to fall.

~~~

“That should do it,” came a murky voice as Harry quietly landed in the still-forming environment. The hospital walls shot up from black nothingness, and suddenly the whole wing surrounded him, bathing him in a dull overcast light from the windows.

Madam Pomfrey was standing over Pritchard, who was sitting on the edge of one of the hospital beds, and the matron seemed to be examining his hair. “Not a drop of pumpkin left,” she said.

Harry got a good look at Pritchard as he stood up. It was weird—although he had just seen the Slytherin earlier that day in the Great Hall, now all he could picture was Pritchard’s cold, lifeless face, like it was burned into his mind.

The boy stood with a sneer, dusting off his vest and robes. Harry followed him silently out of the wing, down the marble stairs, and to the long dungeon corridor beneath the castle. For the spare few students Pritchard passed in the halls, not one of them looked him in the eyes. Some of them snickered to themselves as they passed, but most kept quiet and put plenty of distance between them.

When they arrived at the Slytherin common room, the atmosphere was much more open, though Pritchard’s entrance didn’t go exactly as Harry would have guessed.

The room itself was how he’d remembered it: a tall and delicately carved stone ceiling that curved near the top, with glass windows sunk into the arches and looking out into the foggy deep greens of the lake. An old lantern chandelier hung low above the common space, and seated on stuffy black sofas near an unlit fireplace were some of the Slytherin House’s top brass.

The first face Harry recognized immediately was Blaise Zabini, sporting his usual shiver-inducing grin. Beside him was also Daphne Greengrass, and the two of them seemed to be getting cushy with a group of smug seventh-years. Their loud, gossipy chatter died quickly once they’d set eyes on Pritchard walking in.

Greengrass turned to look at him over her shoulder from her seat on the couch, her blonde hair glinting under the lantern light. “Oh, Graham,” she began in a neutral tone, and paused as if calculating what she should say to best serve her social status. “Have you been cleaned up, then?”

Pritchard blushed as the girl looked him over fully, while the other Slytherins seated around her started to chuckle. It seemed it hadn’t taken much time at all for word to pass around the castle about his run-in with seasonal gourds.

One of the seventh-years, a thin boy with bleached hair, laid his arm across of the back of the couch as he turned toward Pritchard and giddily asked, “Is it true that Harry Potter was the one who did it?”

“You fifth-years have been making us all look bad this year,” a seventh-year girl pouted.

Pritchard’s shoulders tensed as the others laid into him, laughing harder with each passing comment. It was the deep, unnatural laughter of Zabini that caught Harry’s attention. He snapped his gaze to the Slytherin and saw the hint of something angry in his eyes.

Zabini sat forward, not once slouching, and drawled out, “You’re never going to change, are you, Pritchard?”

Suddenly, the world began to shift rapidly, as if Pritchard’s own thoughts had begun to spiral. The cold glass windows looking into the lake were replaced by the darkening windows of the Great Hall, during the welcoming feast in Harry’s fourth year. He watched as Pritchard, small and round with a head of thick brown hair, was sorted. The boy looked absolutely elated to be seated next to the upperclassman Slytherins.

Without warning, everything changed again, and Harry found himself standing ankle-deep in snow on the Hogwarts quad. Pritchard was there again, looking to be around twelve; he was running across the quad, chasing a few other young students with snowballs. One of them was hit, sending the girl’s hat flying off her head and revealing blonde hair. Harry guessed it was probably a young Brooke Clifton, and then realized the rest of the students were none other than Malcolm Baddock, Jude Higgs, and Stewart Ackerley.

The group became a whirlwind of flying snowballs and shouts, and Harry instinctively ducked as one of the icy missiles flew over his head, landing with an audible _smack_ on someone behind him. He turned on the spot and saw a tall but young-looking Malfoy standing there in full winter robes and a woolen hat knocked askew by the attack. The snow was already melting against his reddening skin, a scowl set upon his face, and Harry couldn’t help but laugh.

“Oh, crap,” muttered young Baddock. “RUN!”

As the environment began to shift again, Harry only briefly heard Malfoy yell something about being a prefect before the white-grey skies around them were covered by the dark stone walls of a Slytherin dormitory.

Pritchard and Baddock sat on top of one of the beds, both looking a year older. They were passing a box of Every Flavor Beans back and forth seemingly until one of them was too sick to continue.

After handing the box over, Baddock clutched his stomach and made a gruesome face. “I think that one was phlegm,” he belched. Pritchard began roughly patting him on the back as the boy moaned like he was about to be sick.

“I don’t know why you do that to yourselves,” said Jude Higgs from his bed across the room. He was lying on his stomach and working on a parchment. “It’s a waste of sickles.”

Haughtily, Pritchard responded, “What’s the use of having fun if there isn’t a little risk involved?” He then popped a bean in his mouth and only seconds later began to splutter and cough viciously. “Chili powder,” he wheezed.

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t look like much fun to me.” Higgs stood from his bed and stuffed his parchment and quill away into a bag.

“Where are you going?” Pritchard coughed. Baddock was silent, lying on his back and a hand clasped against his mouth.

Higgs stood by his bed, quiet, and scuffed his shoe on the floor. Tentatively, he said, “I promised some of the Ravenclaws I’d meet up for Potions practice.”

“But all you _do_ is homework,” Pritchard protested, while Baddock sat up from the bed and shuddered, adding, “Don’t you remember the lecture Zabini just gave to Graham last week?”

All three of them then said in a conspiring mock tone: “ _Don’t mix with other Houses_.”

“You’re going to get us all into trouble. They keep saying things are going to change this year, and if you’re caught messing with the wrong sort, then Slytherin may disown you,” Pritchard said.

Higgs shrugged. “I thought taking risks was part of the fun.”

In an instant, everything dissolved into blackness. Harry was left not even able to make out his own hands in the darkness, thinking that maybe the Pensieve had run into a glitch, when finally a single white light came toward him with the sound of footsteps.

“What are you doing?” harshly whispered Baddock as he came closer, wand held high and pulsing a _Lumos_ spell. It was then that Harry finally saw Pritchard, nearly looking the correct age now and with his staple red hair. They seemed to be standing in a dark corridor somewhere in the dungeons, but he couldn’t be sure where.

Baddock continued, “This passage is supposed to be sealed by now. If they find you here...”

“I think whoever was going to seal it... never showed up,” said Pritchard. He looked frightened, his voice quivering. “Did you find Jude?”

Baddock shook his head. “I think he’s out there,” he said and gestured with his chin toward the darkened stretch of passageway ahead of them.

“Then we need to—” Pritchard was stopped by Baddock’s firm grip on his arm.

“You can’t go out there, Graham. Anyone who saw you would think you’re with _them_.”

Pritchard frowned. “I’m just going to find Jude and drag him back here if I have to. Then we can wait it out in our room.”

Not listening to Baddock’s objections, Pritchard marched forward and slipped through the hidden entryway of the dungeon. Harry quickly followed him out into the corridor, but didn’t get very far; he skidded to a halt, phasing through Pritchard as he’d stopped so fast.

On the floor at Pritchard’s feet was the lifeless body of an older Slytherin, possibly sixth-year, a girl with long black hair. Pritchard’s face had gone ghastly white. He nearly fell backwards into the passageway, and never did he turn around as he kept stumbling further back inside the Slytherin dungeon.

Harry watched as he ran his back straight into Blaise Zabini, who stood under the arch connecting the passage to the common room. Pritchard was still panting in fear as he turned around and looked into Zabini’s stern glare.

“S—Sorry about that,” Baddock said to Zabini. “We were just going to look... We think Jude Higgs is still out there.”

“Then leave him there. Only a fool would fight in this battle. Best to wait until the winner is chosen, and then decide how to reap your benefits. And let this be a reminder to you, Pritchard,” he said and grabbed the boy’s shoulder, gripping it until he grimaced.

Zabini continued: “The longer you hold your back to us, the sooner you’re going to find yourself dangerously exposed.”

Harry stood in darkness again. The memories seemed to be readjusting themselves, slowing back down, and finally the walls began to phase in, and he was back in the Slytherin dormitory. Pritchard awoke from under his covers with a harsh gasp. Judging by the blinding blackness of the lake through the windows, it was late at night.

It seemed that they’d finally caught back up to the semi-present, after Pritchard had returned to the dungeon, but before his deadly encounter. Harry followed him as the Slytherin shot out of bed and ran to the sinks to scrub his face clean of weariness.

Pritchard then led him out into the common room. There was a thin, wavy shaft of moonlight filtering through the lake’s murk, turning them both a sickly hue as they walked through the beams. The Slytherin walked up to a wide window and pressed his forehead to the cold glass. Perhaps the memories Harry had just been spun through were what had haunted Pritchard in his restless sleep, shocking him awake.

The sequence had admittedly calmed Harry somewhat; he felt he now had something to grasp, at least, even though he was still left without a clue of what sort of events would eventually be leading them to Pritchard’s death outside of the entrance hall.

They stood there for several minutes, Pritchard pressing his face against the lake window and breathing deeply, trying to calm himself. Harry sat down on one of the couches and waited patiently.

Ever so slowly—so slowly that Harry hardly noticed until the light began to fill the room—a soft green light flooded into the common room. The light fell onto Harry’s face, startling him. He looked up and saw its source, a round glow of light, through the window, bobbing underwater in the deep greens of the lake.

Curious, Harry stood back up and walked to the glass. He stood beside Pritchard, who hadn’t even yet noticed the light, and leaned against the glass to get a better look. Once his eyes adjusted, he saw a big, black shape attached to the glow coming straight toward them.

 _THUNK_.

The impact shook the whole common room. Pritchard fell onto his back, gasping, and looked up in horror at the thing. Harry, bewildered, realized then what it was: one of the school’s boats, its lantern still lit, completely sunk underwater and running its bow up against the window glass as if it were gliding on a current. _Thunk. Thwunk._ It carried on in its mission of pushing forward, though the window glass was (fortunately) too sturdy to crack.

Harry stood transfixed by the sight. His mind was swirling with the visions of his dreams—of waking in the boat house, lying in one of the boats tied off at the dock; of stepping off into the shallow marshes of the black lake, a boat gliding silently toward him... But was it real—or not?

Were his dreams somehow leaking out into Pritchard’s own memory? What did it mean, this lonesome boat following him, gliding along like a ghost lost at sea, beckoning him toward its light? He was so caught up by his own fear of the answer that he hardly noticed Pritchard running off down the dungeon passageway until the world around him began to dissolve back into blackness.

Harry ran after him. He managed to catch up about halfway across the corridor. It was beginning to grow much colder in the corridor; although he couldn’t feel it himself, it was evident in the white puffs coming from Pritchard, and the frost forming on the rough edges of the stone walls. The air seemed to grow thicker then, causing Pritchard to suck in harsh breaths as he ran.

Something was wrong, Harry knew. It felt... off. He would have thought it was a dream; he even considered the idea that he’d been dreaming all along and Pritchard actually wasn’t dead at all, but he didn’t put much hope in it. After all, he’d been fooled before.

They were both slowing down. The corridor seemed to stretch on and on, impossibly long, and Harry’s legs felt like led. Something was coming. It felt like it was all around them, in the very walls, and then he heard it: whispers.

The voices started so softly that their meaning was lost, but eventually, they grew louder. Both Harry and Pritchard had stopped in their tracks now, frozen to the floor by the sound. It was a chorus of icy tones, almost chanting in unison, all saying the same word: _Graham_.

Pritchard looked absolutely horrified. He stood petrified, eyes wide, while the voices grew louder. Then—without warning—a slew of black cloaked figures rose into view, up from out of the shadows in the hall, forming a half-circle around him. One by one, each of the figures pointed a wand at Pritchard’s chest, the wand tips lit and casting a pale glow on his frightened face.

“Please,” the boy tried to say, his voice coming out like a croak. Pritchard was now staring wide-eyed at one of the figures’ hands. Harry crept closer and looked as well—a small, pale hand with intricately painted nails, pink with white swirls and speckles like stardust.

The memory changed again in an instant. They were rocketed back into the Slytherin common room. Pritchard stood in a brightly lit corner by one of the tall windows, leaning against the back of a couch and throwing darts at a board far across on the opposing stone wall. Behind him, on the couch, sat Brooke Clifton, her pink-painted nails on display as she laid her arm along the top cushion.

She was watching him throw the darts. “You’re getting really good at that, Graham,” she said, frowning. “Where’d you learn it?”

Pritchard wiped his brow and answered, “Just a couple of the upperclassmen. No one _you_ talk to.”

“Did they teach you those jinxes you’ve been using on Stewart, too?” Even though Brooke was seated, she looked confident, glaring at him with a raised chin. Pritchard seemed so dwarfed in comparison. He missed the board completely on his next throw.

“Stay out of it,” he grumbled back.

This time, Brooke looked at him with pity. “You used to be so sweet. What happened?”

The scene morphed back into the cold stone corridor, and the figure’s hand no longer had pink-painted nails. Pritchard blinked and rubbed his eyes, and then he wiped away a cold sweat that was beginning to form on his brow. The whispers were still there, but incomprehensible again.

“ _Graham_ ,” said a hissing voice from behind. Pritchard spun around on the spot, eyes wide, and it almost seemed as if he were actually staring directly at Harry, but no, he was transfixed by something beyond. Harry turned too, then, and immediately fell to the floor after being startled by a tall hooded figure standing nose-to-nose with himself.

From his position on the floor, Harry strained his neck to look up at the figure’s shadowed face. Slowly, the person came closer into the light and began to let their hood fall back. He heard a laugh. And then he saw, breath caught in disbelief, an awful grin. One he’d come to know well, plastered to the face of Blaise Zabini.

Zabini held up a black hilted dagger in his hand, twirling it playfully. “What did I tell you before, Graham? Keep your back turned long enough...”

~~~

In the next second, Harry was pulled from the Pensieve, the air of the Headmaster’s office hitting him like ice water. Malfoy’s hand was clenching the back neck of his robes and already pulling him back through the doors.

“Wait,” Harry choked. He ran back to the Pensieve.

“What are you doing—” Malfoy began, as Harry hurriedly drew the memory out of the liquid with his wand tip and slipped it back into the glass vial. Then, he returned it to the center of McGonagall’s desk. “Oh, right,” Malfoy finished.

If Harry’d had any time to think, he would have felt a little accomplished at having thought to do something Malfoy hadn’t, but instead, he ran out the doors and followed the Slytherin down the tower’s stairs.

“I didn’t even notice,” Malfoy panted, “I didn’t see her coming at all, but then... I just hear Snape’s voice telling me to start moving before I waste my education.” He asked incredulously, “Is that insane? That the bloody portrait knew all that?”

“Stranger things have happened,” Harry breathed as they came out into the corridor.

With a rumble, the stone griffin behind them slid back into place. On either side, there was nothing but damp stone walls, and a sparse amount of orange torches barely lighting their way. Harry looked across the long, dark corridor and saw that their only means of an exit was blocked—by two swaying beams of wandlight, produced from McGonagall and Slughorn’s wands and slowly encroaching upon them.

“We’re so fucked—” Malfoy mumbled before Harry, quickly thinking, shoved them both back against the darkest corner of the wall and drew out his cloak from his satchel. He threw it over the both of them, crouched, and hoped Malfoy had sense enough to keep his mouth shut.

“Wha—” the Slytherin began again, and so Harry did the only thing he could: he clamped his hand tightly over the prat’s mouth and waited.

The two professors’ steps echoed off the walls toward them as they advanced, their lights growing brighter against the night. He heard Slughorn cough and then say in a nasally stupor, “No, no... I can’t say I recall.”

McGonagall marched forward, leaning on her cane with each step. “Then let us hope whatever awaits us upstairs will jog your memory,” she replied severely.

They rushed ahead without so much as glancing at the corner where Harry and Malfoy were painfully crouched against the wall. With the flick of McGonagall’s wand, the statue guardian jumped aside, and both she and Slughorn quickly ascended the stairs. Harry waited, breathless, until the corridor was left dark again and the statue had slid back into its resting place.

He stood and silently threw the cloak off of them, and then rolled it up, along with the map, and stuffed it all back into his satchel. “All right,” he said, “Let’s...” The words caught on the back of his tongue.

At the end of the corridor a new light had appeared—a single, bigger yellow light, swaying gently as if it was moving toward them. Harry stared. _No, surely not,_ he thought.

At first he thought it might have been Filch holding an old lantern, but then again, the light didn’t sway the same way you’d expect of a person holding it. No, it seemed to be... bobbing.

As quickly as the light had appeared, it seemed to turn on the spot and run back, swinging down a hallway. Harry began to chase after it, barely registering Malfoy’s confusion behind him.

He followed the light all the way back to the entrance hall, where it phased through the doors like a ghost. Harry ran. He burst out into the bitterly cold wind, mindlessly jumping over the spot where he’d found Pritchard mere hours before, and ran down the long staircase on the cliffside as the light led him further along.

It led him onto the docks. His trainers pounding against the old boards, Harry kept on. There wasn’t much light to see by near the water’s edge—only the single bright enigma guiding him along.

His next footstep met only solid air, and before he could even register it, Harry plunged headfirst into the black lake, practically throwing himself off the dock into it. When he opened his eyes, he was surprised to find the light still there in the depths, brighter than ever. It was so near to his face that he felt heat there—a complete contrast against the ice of the lake water.

The light dove down, and in its wake it illuminated the murk. It spun through thick, waving fields of vegetation and kicked up some of the watery mud into his face. Harry swam down after it. After weaving himself through the same long strands of seaweed poking out of the cliffside rocks, he came out on the other side and could see the light once more, though it was speeding far from him now.

Suddenly, the light caught a glint, like a reflection. Harry swam faster, straining every muscle in his body, and he began to choke on the pressure built up in his chest from holding his breath. But he pushed on, determined to find what answer lay on the other side of this mysterious chase.

The bright orb slowed its pace, and its luminance seemed to expand. As it came to a stop, Harry could see more and more of what he and the orb were approaching. The mirror glass looked almost silver in the murk, catching struggling rays of moonlight. It turned amber as the yellow light met its face, and Harry watched, frozen, as the light was absorbed into the Mirror’s surface.

He felt that he was stuck there for hours. But ever so slowly, he swam forward until he could look properly into the glassy reflection.

There was nothing there. Nothing, except the murk and the seaweed, and then... Then—a small, white light. Harry tried to spin around, but he was too weak. He hadn’t taken a breath in so long. His vision was growing dark, but the light—it was coming for him.

Harry stuttered, his throat burning, and began hacking his lungs out. He was cold and soaked to the bone, lying on the dock at the shoreline. Malfoy kneeled over him with a white-knuckled grip on a wand, its tip lit with the white light of a _Lumos_ spell.

“Are you fucking _demented?_ ” Malfoy yelled at him, his eyes bulging out and face as pale as the moon high above them. He roughly grabbed Harry by the shoulders and shook him for emphasis. The motion made Harry feel as if his life might very well be rattled from his body.

“Were you trying to kill yourself?” Malfoy continued, this time even more seriously. “What the bloody hell happened to you up in that tower?”

Blinking, Harry tried to sit up. He was still too weak. “Did you see it?” he asked hoarsely.

“See _what?_ ”

“In the lake,” he breathed. He could hardly even speak. There was so much pain, everywhere. “The Mirror... It was down there.”

“I didn’t see anything but you.”

“The light... Did you see the light?”

Malfoy’s brow stitched. “There wasn’t any light, Potter...”

Harry grabbed his arm and squeezed, probably too hard, but he had to know: “Is this a dream?”

The Slytherin was just staring at him now. Harry continued, gritting, “Malfoy, answer me.”

“It’s... It’s not a dream,” Malfoy answered, sounding fearful.

“Then—” Harry’s tongue went dry. He tried again to speak, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth like an arid paste. He closed his eyes and tried to focus.

Finally, he unstuck his tongue and asked, “Am I dead?”


	15. Still Waters Run Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “A person's calm exterior often conceals great depths of character, just as the deepest streams can have the smoothest surfaces.” — Dictionary.com

“Am I dead?” he asked again. The burning in his throat was still there, but Harry was beginning to come back to his senses, and the shock of being soaked in icy lake water was setting in, prickling his skin like needles.

It was the only thing that made any sense to him anymore. He found himself stuck, suspended in a fog between dream and wake—fantasy and reality—death and life. How long had he been here? Had there ever really been a choice for him at all?

Maybe, just maybe... he had boarded the train.

He snapped his eyes shut and forced himself to breathe, if only to feel the air in his lungs, to feel his own life.

Harry thought he didn’t fear death. No, he wasn’t scared when he walked into the forest to die. He’d been ready then. He was tired... So tired. He thought of how much of his life waited for him in death, had thought it was where he belonged after all, but now...

Everything was supposed to change. In death, there was new life to come, sprouting from the ashes stronger than ever before. That was how he had returned then: like a phoenix, breathing anew on the dirt of the forest floor. Ready to begin again. Unshackled.

It was that hope that allowed him to fear death now. Hope of rising from the ashes, of rebuilding, of finding a reason to live that doesn’t really mean anything to anyone else, not like before. Because really, none of us signed off on coming into all this, so why should we need some grandiose reason to stay? Isn’t _being_ enough?

It wasn’t Dumbledore who brought him hope, or the end of a war, or the start of a new year. It was the little things. It was the fact that he wanted to wake up, wanted to take long walks around the grounds and drink hot cinnamon honey tea. That everything we know is a long string of ideas and choices made by those before us, and that everything hereafter won’t be decided by them, but by us. There were no more prophecies. Only a long unlaid road ahead. That’s what gave him hope.

And that’s what terrified him of the thought that maybe, actually, he was dead. Harry opened his eyes again. He was still there, lying cold and wet on the dock, and Malfoy was staring down at him with pity.

“No,” Malfoy responded, “You’re not dead. Not yet.”

Harry laughed to himself. It made his throat hurt more. How would Malfoy know whether he was dead or not? Who made _him_ the authority on it? For fucks sake, the git hadn’t even noticed that he wasn’t actually dreaming when he decided to turn Harry’s life (death?) upside down.

“Malfoy, I saw a light. It led me into the bloody black lake and nearly drowned me. Doesn’t that sound a little bit too on the nose to _not_ be some kind of cosmic message?”

“Okay, let’s say you’re dead. Am I dead, too?”

“Maybe.”

“What about Graham, then? What did you see up in that tower?”

“A boat,” he answered. “I saw a boat.” Then, after Malfoy glared at him for far too long, he continued, “It looked like multiple people attacked him, and Zabini was leading them.”

“Zabini?” Malfoy gawked.

“Yeah, but... there was something off about the whole thing. It felt like one of my dreams. Not real.”

“So, you mean your dreams were affecting the memories, or...?”

“Maybe,” Harry said, shaking his head a little. “Fuck, I’ve got no idea anymore what to think. But if McGonagall sees the same events I did, you can bet Zabini won’t be sleeping here much longer.”

Malfoy sat up further, his breaths calming back down now that they had something semi-rational to discuss. His eyebrows furrowed together and he said, “No, I just can’t see Zabini doing something like that.”

“D’you think someone would want to make him look guilty? Maybe they altered Pritchard’s memories. It could explain the weirdness of it all.”

“I can’t think of anyone,” Malfoy sighed, annoyed by the puzzle. “Zabini keeps to himself mostly. Anyone he does talk to knows not to get on his bad side.”

Harry shifted and lifted himself up to a sitting position. He started rubbing his arms, trying to warm up. “Well,” he said, “Pritchard seemed to have a bone to pick with him. Or perhaps the other way around. What if he... wanted to blame Zabini somehow? Theoretically, he could alter his own memories, couldn’t he?”

“Possibly,” Malfoy shrugged, though he didn’t seem at all convinced. “Although I think that’d be ruddy hard to do, especially if you’re in the middle of dying.”

“Right.” Well, they were getting nowhere, again... And now Harry was cold and wet with nothing to show for it.

He blinked. His eyes were coming into focus again and he felt strained by the bright white light coming off the wand in Malfoy’s hand. “Wait,” he said, confused, “Your wand...”

Harry looked closer and saw that, of course, it was Malfoy’s _real_ wand, not the dud from the Ministry. Malfoy awkwardly snuffed the _Lumos_ spell and set the wand down upon the dock. “Yes, well, your satchel fell open after you ran off into the lake, and I didn’t have much time to think about rules and such...”

Sure enough, most of the contents of Harry’s bag were spilt across the wooden boards of the dock. He pulled them back into the bag, and then his hand landed on something soft and cool.

While much of his belongings were now a bit waterlogged, the Weazawig scarf was only flecked with a few droplets of water that were easily shaken off. The scarf’s golden interwoven threads sparkled in his hand like stars.

“That’s...” Malfoy stuttered, “That’s Ramidreju fur. Where in the world did you get Ramidreju fur?”

They both seemed as equally surprised by the other. Harry asked, “How d’you know about it?”

“I saw it once, in one of the top wizarding museums in Paris... They wouldn’t let anyone even touch it. Had it under a protective enchantment and everything. So _how in the world_ do you have that, Potter?”

“Hagrid gave it to me,” Harry said as if it were obvious.

Malfoy laughed quietly to himself. “Of course he did,” he muttered. Then he snapped his eyes to Harry’s and said, “It’s a wonder how you always manage to be so lucky, Potter. Your veins must be filled with Felix Felicis. And to think you were asking me if you were dead, while this whole time you’ve just been carrying around a genuine Ramidreju fur as if it were nothing but a simple scarf. Do you realize what you have?”

Harry’s grip on the scarf grew tighter. “I realize that I’ve been wasting it by having it.”

“No,” Malfoy emphasized. He pointed, “You see these gold-colored flecks on the fur? They’re... How do I explain it? It’s like a defense spell. You only find it on them in the wild, not the domesticated ones they use to make expensive cloaks with. But in the wild, when the creature senses it’s in danger, the ends of its hairs open up almost like a flower, and it creates a barrier.

“It’s part of what makes them so hard to catch. When I was at this museum in Paris, years ago, my father wanted to buy one, of course. He tried to convince them to sell him the one on display, but it’s so rare that it’s practically priceless. They told him to just go down to the shops and buy one of the domestic fur cloaks. It still has its merits, yes, but it’s nothing like the genuine thing.”

Malfoy laughed. “But it makes sense, doesn’t it? Everything that’s been happening around here, how you keep narrowly avoiding being attacked yourself. Even if this person—or thing—wanted to kill you, I think they’d find themselves well out of luck, because that satchel you’ve had that fur stuffed into may as well be your own personal mini-defense-spell bubble.

“Maybe they’ve even realized you’re untouchable and that’s why they’ve moved on to other things. Because the only way _you’d_ be murdered is if—”

Harry sat up a little straighter and interjected, “If they could lure me into it. Say, like, luring me into the black lake and hoping I drown myself to death?”

His thoughts were racing a mile a minute, trying to parse through everything _off_ that had happened so far this year. He continued, “Maybe you’re right, though... The first time they tried to petrify me, I hadn’t even unpacked the fur yet. I left it up in my room. But the second time they had me off-guard, after they’d dragged you through the woods and my wand got knocked out of my hand, they didn’t do a thing. I wondered why they didn’t try again. But I did have my satchel then, with the fur in it, didn’t I? Maybe they know, somehow, that I’m being protected.”

Malfoy blinked. “Dragged through the woods?” he asked, voice slightly pitched.

“Yeah. That night when we found one of the boats at the marshes, and then you—” _thought it was all a dream, and then made me chase you around the pitch like a madman and_ then _you fucking kissed me and ruined me, you git._ He stopped himself from saying the rest aloud, but he had said enough. He knew he’d said enough, because now Malfoy looked very scared, possibly even more scared than he had when they found Pritchard dead. Oh, that wasn’t good, was it? _Why is he so fucking scared?_ Harry wondered.

He briefly debated trying to get out of it. He could just pretend he was mixing up real life with his dreams again, play the idiot, because no one had issue believing Harry to be one of the biggest idiots walking this earth. Well, he may have been an idiot, but he was also a Gryffindor. _Fuck it all,_ he thought.

“Madam Hooch found the brooms,” he said evenly. “One of them looked to be pretty burnt up, according to my sources. Hooch is pissed about it, by the way.”

Malfoy sat frozen still like a statue, and though his lips hardly moved, he still managed to mumble, “They were shit brooms anyway.”

Harry released a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. So, this was it. All out in the open now, was it? And Malfoy wasn’t running away this time—not yet, at least. Harry, trying to keep it light, added: “Well, I think I might donate some new ones, seeing as I’ll feel responsible if the Gryffindors lose this year due to riding on a burnt-up broomstick.”

“Make Hagrid pay for it. It’s his bloody firedrakes.”

“Are you still sore about being set on fire, twice?”

“Of course I am,” Malfoy grumbled.

“...Then will this make up for it?” Harry asked and held up the Ramidreju fur close to his face, where they could both clearly see the gold specks twinkling among the mosslike strands.

Once he’d realized the fur was protecting him, he didn’t want it any longer. He felt it was only a waste on him; he wanted it to go to someone he truly wanted to protect, and right now, more than anyone, it was Malfoy. _Draco_ , he corrected himself. Why bother keeping up the act any longer? He wondered if he called him ‘Draco’ out loud now if he’d get punched immediately.

He watched as Draco blinked and looked down at the scarf with a grimace. “I don’t want that,” he responded. “You’re the one who needs it.”

“No,” Harry protested, “If they think I’m untouchable, then what good is it doing me? I’d much rather it be in the hands of someone I know it’ll help.”

Draco frowned. “Why don’t you give it to your friends?”

“You are my friend,” Harry said defiantly; but at almost the same time, Draco huffed, “You know what I mean.”

...Well, truthfully, Harry hadn’t thought at all about giving it to Hermione or Ron. After all their years together, he figured they could handle themselves just fine, and neither of them had even been witness to any of the attacks so far. No, when he thought about it, almost everything seemed pinpointed to the Slytherin side of things—sure, Ackerley was a Ravenclaw, but he’d been caught in the middle of a tiff with all his Slytherin peers; and then there was that whole thing with Parkinson, which honestly seemed so much of a blip that Harry had nearly forgotten it; and, of course, he would never forget the look on Draco’s face as he was dragged through the forest, or of Pritchard’s.

“I _want_ you to have it,” Harry insisted. He leaned to wrap it around Draco’s neck himself, but the slippery git evaded him, causing Harry to fall face-first onto the dock.

“Keep it for yourself,” Draco huffed right as Harry shot up off the wooden boards and began to chase after him.

“So, are you admitting you do actually care if I live or die?” Harry joked as he once again missed Draco’s neck.

“No, I merely jumped into the lake in the freezing cold and dragged your sorry ass out for my good health.”

Draco—the ungrateful fiend—was too quick for Harry to lasso with the scarf, despite how many methods he tried. They both stopped, only inches apart, breathing white puffs into the air as Harry glared at him. The blond git was taller than him, however... Harry was stronger.

With his free hand, Harry grabbed the front of the boy’s robes with a hard fist and pulled. And all in one quick, awkward motion, he pulled him by the neck down into a kiss. The effect was immediate. What Harry lacked in agility he made up for in ingenuity.

Although Draco tried to gasp, it was clearly hard for him to do so with Harry’s mouth planted on his, especially considering his tongue had already slipped in. Harry nearly forgot what his end goal was. Well, maybe he could have multiple.

He kept his fist tight on Draco’s robes to make sure the Slytherin couldn’t run away from him again, though it didn’t seem like he planned on going anywhere, anyway, but Harry needed to make sure he had enough time to get the scarf around him. He did it, more easily than he imagined it would be, considering his mental functions were somewhat blocked by the taste on his tongue, but he finally had the scarf on him, and Draco didn’t even seem to notice.

Slowly, Harry unclenched his fist, let his shoulders relax, and let his hands slide down to rest on Draco’s chest as the Slytherin kissed him back with fervor. Harry was shocked—under his right hand, even through thick layers of clothes, he could feel Draco’s rapidly beating heart. He thought it felt even more severe than his own, which rattled in his ribcage like a wild beast.

He wondered how Draco always managed to keep such a calm expression if this was the true intensity of everything broiling beneath the surface.

Draco then unlatched himself from Harry’s lips, letting the cold night air whip across his chin, and the Slytherin leaned his head down toward his shoulder. Their cheeks brushed, and he could feel the boy’s warm breath panting against his ear. The sensation sent a hot bolt of lightning down through his body, all the way to his toes.

Harry wrapped his arms around his back, fell into him, and hoarsely said, “ _Please_.”

Now, what he was saying ‘ _please_ ’ for, he wasn’t even entirely sure. _Please stay_ — _Please don’t be afraid anymore_ — _Please protect yourself, for me, for you..._

“Please.” He rested his chin against Draco’s shoulder, after saying it again more clearly.

 _Please love me_ , he thought, his heart pounding in his own ears. The feeling that washed over him was electric, but so painful. A direct stab to his heart. His whole body shuddered under the shock of it.

Years—there were so many years, nearly a decade of them, full of hate. The volatility of the difference made it feel unreal, like he hadn’t even lived those years anymore, like they were remnants of an old movie, left on a video cassette that was collecting dust on a shelf somewhere.

Now? It felt inevitable. Of course he felt this way. Of course. Why hadn’t he sooner? Where was it hiding? It’d been stuffed away in a dark corner, a secret, like some old bewitched mirror waiting to be uncovered in the Room of Requirement. Something had been let out, and now—now it would never be stopped.

But— _What if I’m wrong?_ he thought. What if he somehow misunderstood, or what if he didn’t, but what if Draco was still afraid, and what if he ran away from it again? He didn’t want to go another day of being stuck on the other side of a silent door. It felt like being locked inside a cupboard under the stairs. What if it all came crumbling down? What if it was all a dream?

“Please,” he said again, louder, anxiously. He felt a tear escape his eye and trail down to his chin. In an instant he saw flashes of all the memories within that single tear:

The first train ride, passage into a new world; young Draco’s hand, rejected and alone; the tower; Draco’s hand, quivering, holding his wand; his eyes, his wide eyes, as he stared into Harry’s and said, “I don’t know.”; the last train, all white, left unboarded... And then Harry, alone, being dug up from the earth by Draco’s weak hands.

It was all too much for two people to bear. He was starting to shake. Then, he felt his breath release as Draco’s arms wrapped around him in return. He could feel them there, solid—secure. Safe.

“Okay,” Draco said finally. Harry wasn’t sure what he meant. Perhaps he’d tried to say, ‘It’s okay,’ but, like Harry, was currently a nervous mess who was only capable of saying a single word— _Please_ —or otherwise he’d probably break. Or perhaps he was simply answering Harry’s unvoiced request, but which?

 _Okay, I’ll stay_ — _Okay, I won’t be afraid, not anymore_ — _Okay, I’ll take it, I’ll protect us both..._

Harry gulped and rammed his eyes shut. _Okay, I’ll love you_ , he begged to be the answer. But how could it be? There was no way to elaborate on such a question with nothing but a strangled, ‘Please.’

Harry took in a sharp breath, mustered everything he had within him, and stuttered, “Don’t—” He breathed out, and laughed a little to himself, at how pathetic his voice sounded, at how he was going to sound, as he continued: “Don’t leave me, all right?”

He felt, oddly, like he was about to walk into the forest again. And he wanted Draco to walk with him, just to the edge, so he wouldn’t have to do it alone this time.

He could feel Draco’s heart hammering against him. “I won’t,” he said. And it was the most certain-sounding thing he’d ever heard him say.

After finally spelling their clothes dry of the lake water, the two of them walked back up the long cliffside staircase, which Draco grumbled about the whole way up ( _Who bloody built this shite school? A fucking troll?_ ), and went inside the castle.

The portrait of Cynthia Buchanan sleepily yawned, “Lots of activity around here tonight,” as Harry poked the canvas with his wand and recited the spell that opened up the entryway into the Quad Tower. He and Draco climbed up the stairs and into the common room, and there they saw Slughorn awkwardly standing by the couches, hands behind his back and rocking on his heels.

“Oh, Harry,” the professor said with surprise once he saw them. Then, he frowned and asked, “My boy, what are you doing up so late?”

Fortunately, Harry’s answer—or, more realistically, non-answer—was cut off as McGonagall marched in from the boys’ dormitory staircase. As she walked toward them, she moved aside, and then Harry could see coming along behind her was none other than Blaise Zabini.

Zabini looked hastily dressed in his school robes, his tie askew and clothes ruffled. He held nothing, not even a wand, and stood with a sour face (although, Harry thought he always had a sour face).

“Mr. Potter,” said McGonagall as she came closer, eyes critically fixed upon him, “What are you doing down here?”

“Er—” Well, now he would _have_ to come up with an answer.

Beside her, Zabini leaned forward with a sneer and muttered under his breath, “Nice scarf, Draco.”

“You two,” McGonagall demanded, looking severely down at both Harry and Draco, “Go up to your rooms at once. I don’t want to hear another _syllable_ out of any of you tonight.”

Harry released a breath. He really hadn’t a bastard clue what his excuse would be, so, ever thankful, he ran up the boys’ dormitory stairs.

The door loudly snapped shut behind him as he came into his room. To his surprise, it was silent inside, with not even Hermione’s paper birds making a tweet from their cage at his bedside. Harry breathed. He felt like he hadn’t been in his room in years. “This is the longest day I’ve had since... Well, you know,” he said softly to the birds, who he knew didn’t know at all what he was talking about, or even what he was saying. The little robin peeked one eye at him before returning to snooze in its ruffled paper feathers.

He set his satchel down on the comforter of his bed and kicked off his trainers. After taking off his outer clothes, he sat on the bed and viciously rubbed his face, seeking a fresh surge of energy. He wasn’t exactly tired—he doubted he would ever be able to fall asleep that night, seeing that it was already in the early hours of the day—but his eyelids were growing heavy and the oils on his skin felt stale. What he really needed was a shower, but he was afraid of stepping out into the hall again lest he face McGonagall’s wrath.

After a while, Harry gave up and laid his head back on his pillow. He watched the little paper birds with envy, seeing how peacefully they slept. He wondered what paper birds dreamt of—paper sheep? No, probably something much more enticing to a bird—paper berries? Could they even dream? He’d have to remember to ask Hermione in the morning.

He lay there for hours, turning and repositioning himself nearly every half-hour like clockwork, feeling an ache in his legs. He’d think of nothing but Draco, and then, feeling guilty for thinking of nothing but his own interests, he’d revisit his theories on Pritchard, Zabini, the mystery intruder, the Mirror...

It was all swirling around in his head like a black vortex. It only made him more restless. During all the tossing and turning, he didn’t even notice the paper birds begin to stir. It was as if his own agitation had become contagious.

Just as Harry had finally found a comfortable position to brood in, his left ear suddenly stung with the loudest, shrillest _SHREE—ACK_ he’d ever heard in his life. His heart dropped out of his chest in shock. When the horrible screech continued, Harry roughly clamped both his hands against his ears and snapped his aching eyes closed, as if that would stop it. The sound reminded him of the warded alarm spell Hermione set up on the grounds.

Even over the noise, Harry could hear—and feel—when his door burst open. He looked and saw first Ron, red-faced and panting in his doorway, and then Hermione behind him; both of them looked like they were ready to fight off dark wizards in their pajamas. It was like the sound itself had triggered something within them all.

The noise seemed to only grow louder. Ron covered his own ears and shouted, “WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS THAT?” At least, that’s what Harry assumed Ron said, as he couldn’t hear him very well and had to read his comically big mouth movements.

Within moments, Neville was behind them both in the doorway, and not soon after Seamus and Dean were also there, trying to peek in over Neville’s tall shoulders. _Fuck, we’ll wake the whole tower at this rate_ , Harry thought.

As he fumbled onto his knees, still clutching his ears tightly, and had barely begun to wonder just _where_ the hellish sound was emanating from, Hermione simply flicked her wand and sprung open the paper birds’ cage.

The robin and goldfinch fled the cage immediately. They whipped past Harry’s head, cutting a stinging slice across his cheek along the way, and hid somewhere between his trunk and the bed. The only paper bird left inside was the little black and white coal tit, and Harry looked down and saw that its beak was open and the sound, _the horrible sound_ , was radiating from this tiny paper beast.

The little bird spread its wings and flew up then, and it glided over the heads of the eighth-year Gryffindors, singing its loud screech the whole way. Dean and Seamus nearly bowled each other over as they tried to turn away from the noise.

Harry stood up. He rubbed his left ear and hoped it wasn’t bleeding. “What does it mean, Hermione?” he yelled hoarsely, stepping closer so she could hear.

“It’s—” she tried to say, while the coal tit flew back into the room and twirled around them, still sounding an alarm, “It’s not good.”

“No—Shit,” Ron shouted.

“They aren’t meant to behave like this, unless...”

“ _Unless?_ ” Harry demanded.

“Mortal—peril,” she mouthed, because the shrieking had become too loud again. And then it clicked: he remembered sitting on one of the sofas on the ground floor of the Burrow over the summer and watching Hermione and Mrs. Weasley examine the Weasleys’ clock. Hermione always loved to experiment with new spells.

She’d said the paper birds were meant to just be a bit of fun—something that acted almost like a mood ring. The birds could sense when things were amiss in your inner circle; they picked up on the subtle rifts in your relationships. But, if she experimented further, and she could add her own twist to the Weasley spell, then, _what?_ —it knew when someone in your inner circle was in _mortal peril?_

“Hermione—”

“I could be wrong!”

“Do you think it could be—” Ron tried to say. They were all talking over each other in a panic, and the fact that they could barely hear anything, as if they were all trapped in some sort of psychotic nightclub, made it even worse.

“HERMIONE, EXPLAIN, PLEASE,” Harry shouted, his heart thumping.

“ _If_ I did the spell right, it could mean that someone is in very, _very_ bad trouble,” she said, shooting her hands up in defeat.

 _If_ she did the spell right. Harry would have rolled his eyes if he wasn’t busy panicking. Ron, before shoving through the crowd behind him, gasped, “ _Ginny_.” He took off down the stairs.

Hermione and Neville stood with Harry. The bird was still buzzing around the room, never letting up on its horrid song. Seamus and Dean were cowering in the doorway, but they hadn’t run off with Ron, probably because they had no idea what was going on.

“Harry...” Hermione began tentatively.

It wasn’t Ginny. No, he _knew_ who it was. He ran out the door.

The little coal tit had followed him down the stairs, and it finally stopped screeching, so long as Harry was right behind it. Quickly, though, he cut across onto the Slytherins’ floor and threw open Draco’s door.

Empty.

Harry ran down through the common room, down the spiral stairs; he fell out face-first onto the hard stone of the fourth-floor corridor, and heard Cynthia say, “My Merlin, are you alright?”, but he didn’t notice any of it.

He only kept his eyes forward, with the paper bird in his peripheral, and ran. The bird must have felt the same urgency he did, because it never once fell behind. It led him down and then onto the third-floor corridor. Harry sped forward, the way becoming clear, as he ran to the Charms classroom. The doors were already standing open.

He ran forward and slid onto his knees, his jeans catching on the stone floor and ripping open a hole on his right leg. His knee started to bleed. He skidded to a halt right beside Draco.

“ _Draco_ ,” he breathed and shot his hands out, grabbing Draco by the shoulders, and he shook him. He turned him so he could get a better look at his face, and then he saw what was left of the Ramidreju scarf fall in tatters onto the floor, only shreds of it remaining, covered in a dim gold dust.

“Draco,” he said again, louder, and shook his shoulders once more. He forced himself to look at the Slytherin’s face. His eyes were closed. His mouth was slightly ajar. His skin was pale, but it was always pale, it wasn’t that sickly grey tone yet, right? _Right?_ Was he breathing? _Fuck, I can’t focus_ , he thought, wheezing. He tried placing his hand over Draco’s chest, where only hours ago he’d felt his heart racing.

He couldn’t feel it now.

Harry didn’t notice Hermione, Neville, and the others come running into the room. He didn’t notice the way the moonlight hid most of the classroom in dark shadows. He didn’t notice the tears as they began to stream down his own face, running against the fresh cut on his cheek and making it sting even worse. He didn’t even notice the Mirror of Erised sitting there in the middle of the room, practically right in front of him, uncovered.

In one struggling motion, Harry scooped Draco up into his arms. He could hear the others speaking to him, but he didn’t understand what they were saying. It all sounded like a low, buzzing hum. With adrenaline pumping the blood through his veins, making his muscles move, he ran.

The doors of the hospital wing shuddered and burst open. He hadn’t even cast a spell, not even a nonverbal one. He didn’t need to. He hadn’t had a case of accidental magic in years, but the force of this one was so strong that it caused the wood to crack and one of the doors to fall off its hinges. If Pomfrey hadn’t been awake already, she surely would be now.

Harry rushed to an empty bed and placed Draco on it, leaning his back against the wall in a sitting position, trying to avoid making him look like a corpse. In the little time it had taken him to do so, both Pomfrey and Hermione were at the foot of the bed. Pomfrey, speechless, rushed around the side to Draco and began to work.

Harry didn’t dare take his eyes off him. He felt Hermione grab his arm and try to pull him toward her, but he wouldn’t budge. Then he heard her say, quietly, “I asked Neville and the others to stay back and try to find whoever’s done this. Harry, do you know anything?”

“Pritchard,” he said so thickly that Hermione couldn’t understand him. He cleared the back of his tongue and said again, “Graham Pritchard. We found him dead outside earlier tonight. They think Zabini did it. They took him. Nobody knows anything, Hermione.”

He felt her grip lighten. “Harry,” she said, “Your scarf...”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the loose fiber remnants of priceless Ramidreju fur. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. He didn’t care about some stupid scarf.

“But Harry,” she said again, voice quivering, “You must remember... There are only so many spells that could do this...”

“Not now, Hermione,” he gritted between his teeth and stared harshly at Pomfrey as she waved her wand around Draco’s still body.

Madam Pomfrey paused. Her wand hand fell down and she clasped her free hand over her mouth to suppress a noise. She looked from her wand to Draco and then to Harry and Hermione, and she let her hand fall from her face and said so lowly that Harry could hardly hear with his injured ear, “The Killing Curse.”

A window shattered. It was one of the tall, arching windows along the long west-facing wall. Harry’s fist was clenched and turned white from the pressure; he could still feel the electric power flowing through him from another bout of accidental magic.

“But—” Madam Pomfrey stuttered. She composed herself and rubbed her eyes, and then she looked back up at Harry and Hermione and said, “It’s the strangest thing...”

Harry couldn’t feel his hand anymore, he was holding it closed so tightly. Hermione asked, “What is it?”

“I think...” Pomfrey drew out. Harry’s nails dug into his skin, made it bleed. Madam Pomfrey continued, “There’s the slightest chance that he could still return.”

“What do you mean _return?_ ” Harry hoarsely shouted.

Before Pomfrey could even draw a breath to answer, another window shattered.

“Harry, you need to stay calm,” Hermione said, holding a steady hand to his shaking shoulder.

But how could he? There was a storm inside him—one that’d been building up for months, ever since the summer, and couldn’t wait a second longer to unleash its force.

Pomfrey straightened herself and explained, “The two of you should be able to understand it—this happens to muggles much more often than magickind. When one’s body is in shock, and too weak to keep itself going, the body will sometimes shut itself down to its barest of functions.”

“Is he alive, Madam Pomfrey?” Harry asked, emphasizing every word.

“What I can tell you,” she answered, “Is that there may be a _chance_. It isn’t the sort of thing you see every day. I am in the business of examining one’s inner magic—the kind of magic that makes you shatter our windows, Mr. Potter, and I can tell you this: When I examined Mr. Pritchard, his core was gone.

“But with Mr. Malfoy, here,” she continued, cautiously, “I cannot say the same. There is something. It’s very vague—very unstable. It feels as if it could disappear at any moment. But it is _something_. Do you understand?”

Harry felt Hermione’s grip on him tighten. She leaned forward and asked beside him, “Is there any way to wake him?”

Harry blinked slowly. His vision narrowed onto Draco’s shut eyelids and focused on them so hard that he couldn’t hear Pomfrey’s answer over the harsh white noise rumbling in his head.

 **Wake**.

~~~

It was the sound of water that became clearest first. There was this familiar, rhythmic hiss of the tide lapping along the shore, running its fingers through the beach sand like silk. And then there was thunder—not loud or threatening, but just a distant rumble. It melted in with the hissing waves.

At the start, he felt nothing, and saw nothing. It was just the waves crackling in his ear. Everything else was as starkly white as a blank sheet of paper left in the sunlight. But the longer Draco stood there, the more he could see as his eyes began to adjust. To him, it looked almost like a colorless copy of a shoreline at one of the many private beaches in Cannes he’d been taken to as a child. As he remembered it, his feet began to sink into the ground, and he could almost feel the sand. Then a wave came across the shore, running warmly around his ankles and spraying the air with a salty, light mist.

The next thing he heard, distinct from the waves and rumbling thunder, was the creaking of old wooden boards, and lapping water. He looked up and saw a vague shape beginning to form out of the white; there were no lines to distinguish one shape from another, only a grainy milk-grey shadow curving along the surfaces, saying, _I’m still here_.

He saw a boat. It was the kind of boat he knew well—small, and old, one that could barely hold two adult-sized people—and the familiarity of this boat _haunted_ him. It was as if his brain was wrapped in the same white nothingness of the world around him; he couldn’t remember where he was supposed to be, or perhaps even who he was, before he saw this boat. And then the memories started leaking back in. It wasn’t a flood, but the tiniest drip, eking itself out unwanted through a faucet someone had meant to close all the way, but forgot.

The boat had one lantern swaying in the breeze, hung at its bow, and whether it was lit or not, he couldn’t really tell because of all the white around him, but he thought it must be. It was beckoning him forward. He could feel it in his very bones.

His legs started to move toward it, dragging his ankles deeper into the warm water and sand. His right hand slid onto the lip of the boat, rubbing against a rough patch of wood, and then he felt his fingers grip the wood for support. His knee lifted and he watched as his foot landed on the edge, ready to climb into the boat’s seat.

The world had gone quiet; there was no more rumbling thunder, not even the lapping of waves against him, though he could see it running up and around him. No, the only thing he could hear now was the boat’s wooden boards creaking as it bobbed loosely in the shallows.

But then he heard something else as he stood there, glued to the boat—it was loud and full of grit, like sand being kicked up as someone ran across a shore.

“Draco, don’t!” he heard shouted from far behind him.

Suddenly, someone was grabbing his arm, which was still frozen in place by his hand on the boat. With that one touch, everything changed. He hadn’t noticed it before, but he had been nearly as white as this world he was thrown into; but with that touch, his color came flooding back in. It spread from that point like watercolors flying across a wet page, bringing the peach back into his arms, up through his neck and back into his face, and even his grey eyes became less monotone from the touch. It kicked him in the stomach and suddenly he was breathing again.

“You know how you said you saw a boat?” Draco asked. His words tumbled out almost foreign to him, as he was still getting used to being in control again. He felt the touch on his arm growing stronger, pressing against him and holding him.

His eyes snapped up to Harry’s and he continued, “I’ve seen it too. I’ve _been_ seeing it, kept seeing it in my dreams, ever since... sixth year. Since he died.”

Harry was staring at him, holding his gaze, looking worried and lost. But he kept quiet while Draco went on, saying, “For the longest time I thought it was his way of giving me that second chance he promised me, you know? Bringing me back to Hogwarts like a first-year all over. I guess that’s what I wanted it to mean, at least.”

“I... I don’t know what it means,” Harry stammered, “but I know that you can’t get on that boat, Draco. Don’t get on it.”

Draco’s hand was still holding firm to the lip of the boat. It was fully in his control now; his hand was shaking, his breaths were getting shorter, and his heart started to hammer. He said, “But what if this is my only chance to make things right?”

Harry’s grip on his arm became painful as his fingers dug into his skin. “By doing what, Draco, _dying?_ ” he demanded. “You have plenty of chances. That’s what living’s for. How can you expect to change anything if you’re dead?”

“Dead?” Draco asked.

Harry pulled him off the boat; it didn’t take much for his hand to fall away from it. Then he dragged him further back onto the shore and said, “Listen to me. Dumbledore, Voldemort—they’re dead. They don’t have any power over any of us anymore. All we can do is keep going and hope for the best.

“Whatever you think that boat’s going to tell you—it won’t ever be enough. I’ve learned that over and over again. The dead don’t have anything to say. ...Well, except Sir Nicholas, and really he says an awful lot of nothing.” Harry grinned.

“But—” Draco tried to stop himself from smiling at the silly joke, pushed the laugh down, because he was dealing with something he couldn’t quite explain. “There must be something on the other side of that sea that could tell me what’s happening to me— Us. Everything went wrong so quickly, didn’t it? Graham’s not coming back from it. I just want to know what the fuck is going on. To be honest with you, I’ve been fucking terrified of the answer.”

The cogs in Harry’s brain slowed to a near stop. He blinked, trying to wipe away the salt from his eyes. He looked at Draco and said, “Wait. Say that again.”

Draco looked confused, but he replied, “I’m afraid.”

Yes, that was it. **Fear.** Oh my God, how had he not realized it sooner?

Harry was afraid, too. Afraid of what? He supposed at the start he was most afraid of moving on. That’s why he signed up for eighth year to begin with, wasn’t it? He had no idea what the outside world would have in store for him, and he was afraid to find out. He wanted to stop that pain before he could even know its name; climb back up the cliff he hadn’t realized he was about to jump off of.

Then, when he saw nothing in the Mirror, not even his own tired face, he became afraid of what that meant. Of nothing. Afraid to know what nothing would look like, to live in that nothingness, to be unknown and beyond. Maybe the act of dying hadn’t been so scary to him, but coming back was, because coming back meant he would have to face the truth of death one day.

And he wasn’t the only one who was afraid, was he? Pritchard, despite his carefully armored exterior, had clearly been afraid. He was afraid of being the outcast, of being cornered and finding out that all those people he thought of as friends secretly hated him. Secretly wanted him dead.

There were Ackerley and Higgs, afraid of heartbreak. There was Pansy Parkinson, afraid that everyone wanted her to be dragged out of the school and put to trial for her sins. It was no wonder the Slytherins had been so haunted by fear over the past weeks; their fears would be stronger than ever now that they had nothing to hide behind. All the masks had been torn down. And really, _everyone_ was afraid... Afraid of war and hatred and death and dying... There must have been more fear held in the walls of the school over the last two years than there had ever been in all its history combined.

So, really, it all made sense. People played their parts, put on calm faces, and looked themselves in the mirror every morning and said to themselves, “I’m moving on.” ...But deep down, whether anyone felt it there or not, their fears had remained, and those fears began to fester...

The infection grew, crawling up through the cracks, spreading its ills until there was no possible way to hide it any longer. It was the churning of a sea, an ocean that had once looked so calm on the surface, but hid horrible things far, far deeper into its depths than anyone could ever imagine to explore.

...How did the old saying go?

Still waters run deep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for continuing to read this story. If you’ve made it this far, I hope that means you’re enjoying it! And I hope the coming chapters are just as enjoyable. 😊
> 
> If I could take a moment to get a little personal here... Almost exactly a year ago, I faced a difficult time in my life. I wondered how the world just keeps going on while so much pain happens to so many people, and then, for a lot of us, the world did seem to stop... Writing this story has been somewhat cathartic since I get to explore so much about grief and the question of hope. So, all of that is to say: I hope that reading this could help you too, and I sincerely hope none of you are facing too difficult of a time right now, but if you are, there are lots of people out there wishing you strength. Take care.


	16. Fear Itself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t understand it, sir. What’s the point of trying to fix a world we’re in so briefly? Where’s the meaning in all that work if it’s just going to disappear?”  
> He picks up the book again and holds the cover out. “Do you know this story?”  
> “It’s Gilgamesh.”  
> “The world that birthed that story is long gone, all its people are dead, but it continues to touch the present and future because someone cared enough about that world to keep it. To put it in words. To remember it.” — Isaac Marion, _Warm Bodies_ p. 139-140 (excerpt)

Harry’s ankles started to sink a little deeper into the sand. It was warm. _Could all of this really be coming just from fear?_ he wondered. How deep did it go?

“I thought I was finally on the right track,” Draco nearly whispered, “But then I got scared. I always do.

“So I started thinking too much, and I had to know what it is I really want. I thought if I could get in front of that mirror again it would tell me what I needed to know.”

 _That’s how it gets you_ , Harry thought. He cleared his throat and asked, “Did it tell you?”

Draco scoffed and shook his head. “It was the same as I saw the first time you showed me. I guess it’s just a parlor trick after all.”

“...What’d you see in it?”

“You really want to know?”

“Of course I do.”

“Well, it’s not something that could exist here, anyway,” Draco answered bitterly. “...I see myself at some sort of party. A ceremony, maybe, with other Hogwarts alumni and the Ministry’s top brass, and we’re all standing around in the Great Hall, and it’s lit up gold with all these decorations.

“And I’m standing there, well-dressed, and I look clean. Healthy. My— My parents are there, standing kind of at the back, but they look satisfied, and... the Headmaster is there, too, like he’s about to shake my hand. And...”

Draco shifted his eyes away, looking down at the white-washed sand, but then he looked back up, straight into Harry’s eyes. “You’re there too, with all of your friends, and you... Well, you don’t look disgusted with me, like the way you should look in this kind of vision. You look... I don’t know, like you don’t have a care in the world.

“It’s like a window into a parallel dimension, one where things didn’t go so utterly wrong all the time. And I just... I don’t know what to say anymore. Maybe I should never have looked at my reflection.”

Harry frowned. “What’s it going to take for me to convince you that you’re going to be all right?” he asked, and then he grabbed Draco by the arms. “Just tell me, and whatever it is you need to figure this out, well, then I’ll figure out how to make it happen.”

“But sometimes it’s never all right,” Draco contended, voice watery, “It’s never going to be all right ever again for all the ones who’ve been lost already.”

“I know,” Harry said, trying his best to sound reassuring. “But we can’t bring them back. We don’t have a choice but to go on, do we? D’you think that Draco Malfoy you saw in your reflection would want you to stand here and give up while feeling sorry for yourself? Or would he tell you to get up and keep trying? Keep trying for the both of you.”

Draco’s eyes opened wide. Harry could see the sparkling salt of the ocean spray blowing past the boy’s grey irises. Draco sounded almost shocked as he said, “I thought you were an idiot.”

Harry shrugged. “I have my moments.”

“That version of me,” Draco said slowly, thinking, “Probably had the guts to ask you for a second chance.”

“Maybe so.”

“He probably realized how childish all of my priorities were a lot sooner than I did, and I’d bet he didn’t hesitate to stand up to people either.”

“Yup.”

“He didn’t worry about image or class or which fork you’re supposed to use to eat a damn salad. He didn’t hide himself away to make other people happy, didn’t have to wear a mask for so long that it just eventually became his own face.”

After a long breath, Draco continued, “I think that version of myself must have walked right up to you one day and told you all the things I’ve been too afraid to even think about.”

Harry had been quietly nodding along, but at that, he stopped and cocked his eyebrows. “What things?” he asked.

Everything got quiet then, and Harry could hear the waves across the shore, and the creaking boat, and then the rumbling thunder far in the distance...

“Like,” Draco began thickly, “How whenever I’m with you, I have to carefully control everything I say, because I’m afraid something’s going to slip out one day. And when I do speak, I can hardly hear what comes out, because there’s just this... hammering inside of me, and it goes all the way up to my ears.

“It’s things like me lying awake at night feeling like my heart muscle is literally splitting, because I think about how I’ve always fucked everything up, and that one day we’re going to leave Hogwarts and there won’t be anything tying us together anymore, and there’ll be a morning when I’m walking down a street in London and you pass me and we won’t even _see_ each other, because we’ll have been practically strangers for so long.”

The rumbling thunder had now been replaced by that of Harry’s own heart in his chest, drowning out all the other background noise and filling up his ears, just as Draco had said.

Tears were already beginning to well in the Slytherin’s eyes. He hunched over as if in pain and mumbled, “See, I can’t even say it without feeling like I’m going to be sick. _Merlin_.” He sat down hard on the sand.

Harry followed him down, kneeled over his legs and used his own knee to support himself. He wanted to wipe away all of the tears. He didn’t understand why they should need to be there; so, he stuck out his hand and ran his thumb up Draco’s cheek to stop the flow.

He cautiously said, “You told me you aren’t leaving me, and I’m not leaving you, so how could we ever be strangers, Draco?”

Draco sniffed. “I thought you were just talking about all this running around and narrowly avoiding death stuff. If that isn’t what you meant, then what?”

Even with the world seemingly crumbling around him, turned to nothing but a blank white slate, Harry still smiled. “I meant... I love you,” he said.

“What?” Draco blinked, wide-eyed, staring at him.

“Don’t make me say it again,” Harry replied and grinned. “It was hard enough the first time. Words don’t want to come out, you know, like you said. But it’s true.”

“But what about Weasley?” Draco asked, shocked, apparently _very_ slow on the uptake.

“What—Ron? Definitely not,” he joked.

Draco glared at him. “The female one,” he annunciated.

“Where were you when I told you she broke up with me?”

“But—exactly, _she_ dumped you, not the other way around. I thought you were supposed to be madly in love with her or something.”

Now Harry was the one in shock. He nearly choked, saying, “Why the fuck would I have kissed you _multiple times_ if that were the case, Draco?”

“I don’t know!” he replied shrilly. “I just assumed it was another one of your mental lapses! Chosen ones and saviors of the world—all those people are supposed to be straight.”

Harry couldn’t help it. He laughed. He kept laughing, while Draco sat there still trying to catch his breath and looking like the rug was pulled out from under him. After a minute, Harry could finally calm himself down enough to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye and say, “Well, I can tell you that the only person I’m _madly_ in love with is you.”

“The only person, in the whole world?”

“The universe.”

“I take back what I said earlier. You are an idiot.”

“It was nice to be a genius for about a minute. Take it where you can get it, I suppose,” Harry smiled.

“If it’s any consolation,” Draco said, trailing off in-between, “I’ve had feelings for you much longer.”

“Right, well— Wait,” Harry paused. “How long?”

Draco rolled his puffy eyes. “As if I would tell you that.”

“Please?” Harry asked, trying on his best puppy-eyed expression.

“Shove off,” Draco said, and then actually shoved him. Harry wobbled on his unsteady knee and then fell chest-first right onto the git. “You did that on purpose,” Draco mumbled from under his messy black hair.

Harry pushed himself up by his hands and swayed over him. Their noses collided and eyes met, and that same electricity he’d felt earlier ran through his skin again.

Harry let out a long, deep breath that he’d been holding in. Then, he slowly drawled out, “You know... As much as I’d like to do so, so many things with you, I really do think we should wake up, don’t you?”

“...Wake up?”

~~~

“Oh, for fuck’s—” Harry grumbled after he’d fully registered the feeling of his face smashed against the hospital wing’s cold floor. “Hermione, couldn’t you have at least put me on a bed?”

He stumbled his way up onto his feet and wiped his sleeves clean of the grit from the stones, while Hermione hurriedly replied, “I’m sorry, but there is so much going on right now, and you were behaving in a _very_ unhinged manner, you know. It isn’t every day your best friend yells at you, demanding you to knock them unconscious.”

“Well, thanks for the help anyway,” he sighed and re-adjusted his robes. “How long was I out?”

He watched as she checked the time with a _Tempus_ spell. She answered with a shrug, “Barely ten minutes. But... did it all work out?”

“I think so,” Harry breathed. He stepped closer and said seriously, “Hermione, I need you to listen to me carefully.

“This whole time, we were thinking we could find a person to blame this all on. Pritchard, Zabini...” he continued, shaking his head. “But we were wrong. We were never going to find a person, because it _isn’t_ one. It’s all of us. It’s _our_ fears.

“Do you understand?” he asked.

But of course, he didn’t need to ask for clarity. As soon as he’d said it, Hermione’s eyes had gone wide, and the gears in her brain could almost be heard _whirring_ at maximum speed.

Before she could bolt off down the hallway, she hastily asked, “Should I stay—?” while at nearly the same time, Harry reassured her, “Go on. I have control of this now.”

As soon as she was gone, Harry turned on his heel and walked with purpose over to one of the hospital beds, where Draco was still in the half-sitting position against the wall that Harry had left him in. Madam Pomfrey was at the bedside, seemingly having never left.

Harry focused closely on Draco’s face. He looked better—pinker.

“I have no trace of an idea as to what you planned to accomplish while stunned, Mr. Potter,” Pomfrey said quietly, scrutinizing him, “But whatever you have done, it seems to be the answer.”

At that, Harry heard a quiet breath, and then he turned and watched as Draco’s eyelids fluttered open. He looked as if he’d been asleep for months, if not longer, with the way his eyes sunk into his face and winced at the sides.

“Draco...” Harry said with a cracked voice, not knowing just how relieved he truly felt.

Now that Draco was awake, Madam Pomfrey was back to work at full force. She barely gave them a moment of peace, probing Draco with her wand and questions, and she badgered him into drinking a Calming Draught.

“From the top, Mr. Malfoy,” Pomfrey instructed as he drank the last drop of potion. She had all but demanded that he detail the events leading up to his assault, even without the Headmistress present.

Harry leaned in, ready to hear it all for the first time himself.

Draco paused, trying to trace the hours back and figure out where to begin. It was after they’d come back from the docks and been reprimanded (again) by McGonagall.

“I was...” he began, “Overcome by this unstoppable impulse to leave the tower.”

He had been sitting at his desk, trying to focus on the Advanced Defense essay he’d slacked off on for days thanks to... certain recent events. But it was already the early hours of the morning, and his eyes were burning against the lantern light.

Draco finally set his quill down. _I’ll finish it first thing in the morning_ , he thought, knowingly lying to himself. He pushed himself up by his hands and turned toward the bed.

“Damnit, Pansy,” he cursed under his breath. He’d already forgotten that she was still in the room, and now she was asleep and splayed across the bed, stealing all of his best sheets.

It was shocking how fast word had spread about Graham’s fate amongst the eighth-year Slytherins, but Draco supposed it made sense, since Blaise was the one getting tagged for it. As soon as he’d come back up to his suite, Draco found Pansy there, cowering in fear. He could barely understand her through her anxious crying as she explained how she and Daphne, and several other eighth-years, had all been present when the Headmistress came swooping in to bust Zabini. It didn’t take long for Pansy to arrive to the conclusion that Slytherins’ heads were being served on silver platters, and that she would soon be next (Draco didn’t bother pointing out that it was supposedly another Slytherin who committed the crime, but _oh well_ ).

He didn’t know whether it was the guilt getting to him, or whether he was simply stupid, but he couldn’t say no when she begged him to let her stay. He didn’t know why Pansy thought he’d be any security, either—it wasn’t like Draco could do much to a potential killer besides throw his useless Ministry wand at their face and hope for the best.

But now he was exhausted and had no place to sleep, besides the floor, and _that_ wasn’t an option unless he wanted to freeze his spine into place. He briefly, in his insomnia-induced insanity, thought about just walking up to the Gryffindors’ floor and knocking on Potter’s door. But, instead, he found a Pansy-less corner of his bed and curled himself onto it. _I’m going to kick her out by daybreak_ , he thought bitterly as his legs uncontrollably clambered down the side of his bed.

Later that night—morning—Draco had just feverishly checked his wristwatch for the fifteenth time. It was, regrettably, only three minutes since the last time he checked, leaving him at just twelve until five o’clock in the morning. He belatedly realized that he should have just forced himself to complete that damned essay.

He hadn’t gained an ounce of sleep. Even after he’d got up to fetch the Ramidreju scarf off his desk and used it as a makeshift, incredibly expensive pillow, it was no use. Pansy’s snoring didn’t help, no—but he only had himself to blame. By the time he’d shut his eyes and scuffed his dangling feet along the floorboards, his usual nightly bout of spiraling thoughts was already starting to take over. It always started the same way:

His mind wandered back, as if using a time-turner, to a warm Tuesday night at the end of August. It was only a week before the start of term for eighth-year, and it was the night of the Hogwarts grand re-opening ceremony. A night he absolutely dreaded.

The interim Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, had drafted a strict list of demands for Draco to follow before he would be permitted to attend Hogwarts, complete his N.E.W.T.s, and inevitably be allowed to register for a new wand.

Included in this list, much to his dismay, was his attendance to the ceremony. The Ministry most likely considered it a “test run” of his ability to handle eighth-year alone, but Draco thought of it only as punishment. After all, he would be literally surrounded by people better than him.

It was late in the evening when he arrived at Hogsmeade, forced to side-along apparate with an Auror whose name he’d already forgotten. The Auror was tall and middle-aged, and he roughly gripped Draco’s left forearm the whole way to the Hogwarts north entrance gates.

Even though he knew the ceremony was meant to celebrate the end of the restoration effort, he was still surprised to see the bridge intact as they crossed it. As soon as they arrived on the grounds near the northern doors, the Auror passed him off to McGonagall, who assured the man that she could take it from there.

From that moment on, he was the Headmistress’ charge, and the woman had eyes like a hawk. One toe out of line, and he needn’t even worry about the Ministry; the Headmistress would sign his expulsion papers herself.

By the time she’d dressed him down with a prepared lecture full of severe warnings and reminders of his misdeeds and mistakes, he felt beat. She walked him to the Great Hall and instructed him to sit, and to stay (like a well-trained house-elf), because as Headmistress she had many things to attend to—including the ceremony’s opening speech.

Draco chose the best seat he could find: a secluded spot near the doors, in a dark corner, at the least occupied table (which was, of course, the would-be Slytherin table). As long as he could remain silent and in the shadows, then no one would notice him, and he could pass the night without incident. He even tried to keep his breaths shallow.

The ceremony speech commenced soon after he’d sat, and throughout it McGonagall locked her hawkish gaze on him, especially when speaking of the things left still to be done.

After a while, Draco let his eyes wander around the room; even though he had confined himself to a dark corner, the rest of the hall was fairly lit with fresh candles. The glow bounced off the white cloths dressing the tables and onto the faces of all the volunteers, bathing them in that bright light. He absolutely hated it.

“Unity,” the Headmistress said clearly, “Cannot be attained while we continue to bury old wounds in the sand.”

Reflexively, his eyes found the would-be Gryffindor table. The first person he recognized was Lovegood, which made him feel even sicker. It was hard _not_ to notice her, but once he’d gotten past the turnips hanging off her ears, he found Weasley, and that time he nearly gagged.

“Much like the long-forgotten streams now buried far below us, even as the earth above the stream rises, the water rushes on.”

It took some maneuvering of his head, but sure enough, once he’d got into the right angle, he could see Potter sitting across from Weasley’s intruding frame. The messy, black-haired bastard was grinning about something. _Stupid git_ , Draco thought with a stutter in his chest, and turned his attention back on McGonagall.

“All of that is to say,” she finished with the trace of a smile, “We are not celebrating a return to the old Hogwarts tonight, but we _are_ celebrating the hope of what our new Hogwarts will be.”

Later, once the official ceremony and feast had concluded, McGonagall fetched Draco from his seat and guided him up to her office. The hallways were weirdly dark, making him feel as if he were out of bounds and at risk of being found by Filch or his awful cat.

Once they were upstairs, the Headmistress gave him a quick run-down of what he could expect on his return for eighth-year, and she showed him the wand the Ministry had approved for him. He picked it up and felt it in his hand; unlike his old one, this wand was cold and thin. It didn’t grip well, and he doubted it would perform any spell to his liking, but he wasn’t allowed to attempt one until his classes started. He also couldn’t take it home.

“Do you know what time the Ministry expects you at Hogsmeade?” the Headmistress asked.

Sadly, he answered, “Nine-thirty.” Judging by the small clock set on McGonagall’s desk, he still had over an hour before then, and he was exhausted and eager to leave.

“You can meet me at the northern doors at fifteen past, then. Otherwise, you are free to go.”

“Go?” he asked.

“This is your school. The Ministry doesn’t expect me to keep you on a leash here, and I wouldn’t agree to it if they did. Take the hour to do as you please, but be certain that whatever you please is well in the Ministry’s favor.”

Draco was shocked. She was letting him have free reign? He left the room silently, and once he’d exited the tower, he stood by one of the windows in the corridor, trying to think of what he should do.

Just as he had decided he would go find an empty corner to sit in near the north exit, a taunting voice slid down through the ceiling and said, “My, my... if it isn’t the Malfoy boy, up to no good again.”

A chill crept down Draco’s spine at the sound of Peeves. He could see the unholy specter out of the corner of his eye, leaning in much too closely.

Peeves continued, “Already trying to stir up trouble before the term officially starts? Want to purge a few more before they lock you away for good, is that it?”

Draco gritted his teeth and said, “Fuck off.”

His ear twitched at the sound of Peeves’ ugly cackling. Although he tried to focus on staring at nothing out the window, the poltergeist wouldn’t stop pestering him.

“Don’t be modest. I won’t tell if you don’t.”

“Tell what, exactly?” Draco asked angrily. Curiosity finally got the best of him, and he turned to see Peeves grinning at him. Another shiver ran down his spine.

“I know what you left in there, Malfoy. But I thought it only common courtesy to let the poor thing out. Now the question is... what do you think it’s going to do?”

“What?” Draco breathed. _Let it out_? he wondered. He had no idea what Peeves could be alluding to, but he didn’t like the sound of it.

Peeves merely shrugged with a devilish smirk and said, “Better check the seventh floor,” as he phased down through the floor and disappeared.

 _The seventh floor?_ he thought again. Then, his heart tightened. Had Peeves done something in the Room? The cabinet was burnt—busted beyond repair. It could never be used so vilely again. But what else could he mean?

He felt a wave of anxiety coming on, pumping his blood faster. He didn’t want to go back in there; he’d said his goodbyes over the summer when he had to visit to get his paperwork in order. Peeves could be messing with him, hoping he runs into some trouble and gets caught and blamed, and have his attendance revoked.

But what if there _was_ something he missed?

If he once had better judgment, it was lost to him years ago. Maybe it sat in the back of his mind sometimes, tickling him like white static, but it lost control. The only thing that seemed to control his actions anymore was his own mortal fear, and so with that, he sped up the darkened staircase and arrived breathless at the top of the seventh-floor corridor.

He could feebly see in front of himself using the amber light of dusk that gleamed through the windows, but he still had to hold his hand against the wall to make sure he didn’t stumble. He was glad he did, too, because he nearly tripped over a piece of rubble on the floor. Draco bent down and realized there was dust and dirt and who knew what else splayed all over the corridor.

He felt his way across to where the Room’s entrance would be and found that the door was already propped open with a thick bag of garbage. Inside the Room, it was pitch black, and Draco silently cursed himself for not being able to use a wand to see by.

As he held his head in the doorway, looking blindly inside, he felt cold air come rushing at him. He shivered. It was no use—he removed himself from the gap in the door and started feeling his way back to the stairwell.

Another breeze brushed past him just as he had found the top step, and it made him stop. He thought he’d heard the faintest whisper—a cold, hissing sound on the air; and he thought it said his name.

His heart dropped out of him, and he started taking the stairs two at a time, nearly falling onto the sixth floor’s landing as he rushed back to the bottom. Once he’d made it to the first floor and could hear the party still going on downstairs, he stopped to breathe and realized he’d probably just fallen for one of Peeves’ pranks. He clutched a hand to his chest and tried to calm himself, but he could still hear the icy voice, the one that sounded like a snake...

The muffled sounds of drums and shouts and cheering were weaving their way up to him through the Great Hall’s open doors. Draco stood there, shadowed and clutching the landing rail of the first floor, his heart still discordantly pumping in his ears. He realized then just how far removed he was from the rest of them. Maybe he even knew it since his first year; knew it since he was sorted into Slytherin, or when the name Malfoy was stamped onto his registration of birth.

That freedom of sitting in there, under the white candlelight, laughing and watching the others dance without a care—it wasn’t for him. How could it ever be? His freedom was of being just lucky enough to be there, standing in the dark and listening from the sidelines. The freedom of knowing none of them would ever look at him again—it was what he had earned.

He had just managed to get his breathing under control when he spotted someone walking toward the staircase. Draco still had the advantage of being in the dark, so the black-haired intruder didn’t even see him as he sat down on the top step of the first-floor landing.

Draco watched him breathe a deep sigh and then asked, “Why the long face, Potter? Shouldn’t you be in the Great Hall, being swooned upon by all your adoring fans?”

“Shove off, Malfoy,” Potter spat back at him.

Two drunk partygoers ran in-between them, giggling and hardly holding themselves upright as they passed. Draco watched in mounting disgust as the two of them fumbled to open a door to an empty classroom down the corridor.

“It’s too dark, it’s creepy,” the girl said as they finally got the door open. Then, the boy lit his wand and led her inside.

 _If only it were that easy_ , he frowned. If he could have just lit a wand and looked inside the Room, what would he have seen? Then, with this thought still crossing his mind, he looked back down at Potter.

“Even with you being the Golden Boy _Savior_ and all,” Draco said, “It seems to me just bad manners to leave your trash all over the seventh floor while attending a party for supposedly cleaning up the school.”

“Wh— What did you say about the seventh floor?” Potter demanded, having been caught off-guard.

Draco sighed. “I don’t know who taught you how to clean, but I can tell you the answer isn’t to just throw it all out into the hallway.”

Did he believe that Potter was the one who left the mess in the corridor? No. Did he feel guilty for accusing the git of it anyway and hopefully ruining the rest of the party for him? Also no.

He watched as Potter frowned at the teasing comment and then worked through his thoughts. It looked like a slow and difficult process. Draco tapped his foot impatiently.

Finally, Potter came to some kind of internal conclusion, because he roughly stood up and began marching up to the higher floors’ staircase.

It didn’t take long for Draco to grow restless and decide to follow him. Once he was back atop the seventh-floor steps, he could see Potter’s _Lumos_ spell brightening the whole corridor, and the poor bastard was actually kneeling on the floor and picking up the garbage. Savior indeed.

Potter scowled at him and warned, “Malfoy, I swear if I find out you did this, I’ll hex you for a week.”

“I’ve got better things to do than think about your garbage,” Draco said after kicking a bit of rubble toward him. “Maybe one of the kitchen elves was feeling a bit rebellious”

Potter didn’t find it funny. He pulled the bag out of the doorway and let the Room’s door disappear into the wall. “What were you doing up here, then?” he asked.

He _could_ tell him that this was all Peeves’ idea of a good time, but why bother now? It was much more fun to see Potter try to deduce an answer himself. “Are you investigating me, Potter?”

The bespectacled git glared at him. “Did you see anything?”

“No,” Draco said with finality. Technically, he didn’t. It was too damn dark to see anything without a wand, anyway.

“Thanks for the help,” Potter grumbled after hanging the dirty bag over his shoulder.

 _He still behaves like a caveman_ , Draco grimaced, but then responded sarcastically, “Anytime.”

He took one look back at the darkening corridor, making sure there were no whispers or cool breezes, and then hurried to follow Potter back down to the first floor.

As he stepped onto the first-floor landing, he heard Weasley distastefully grunt, “Bet it was Malfoy.”

So, against his better judgment whose warnings he couldn’t hear, Draco walked down to the ground floor, took one look at Potter’s friends, and rebutted, “I see the suggestion of party attire is lost on you, Weasley.”

“What are you doing here?” the ginger all but yelled in return with wide eyes.

“I was invited, like the rest of you,” Draco said, raising his chin.

“For what?” Weasley nearly screeched. “You sure as hell didn’t help with any of the rebuilding.”

Draco felt that twinge of shame he’d become accustomed to recently, but he tried his best to stamp it back down. None of them needed to know he’d basically been forced to attend by the Ministry. He still had reasons to be there.

“Yes, well, unlike you—I have money. I donated to the school’s fundraiser.” It was a dangerous thing to start quipping at the “Saviors”, yes, but he just couldn’t help it. He’d spent so many years doing it that it was as natural to him as drinking tea.

Weasley turned red and nearly launched himself at Draco, and if it weren’t for _Granger_ of all people holding him back, he probably would have been knocked to the floor.

“Your whole bloody family fortune should’ve been seized and given to the school outright after all the shit you’ve pulled, you stupid ferret—”

Draco was beginning to realize he’d gone too far. _What if one of them go to McGonagall about it?_ he thought nervously. He doubted Weasley or Potter would—they’re too damn proud—but he was definitely worried about Granger having the guts to do it.

There was a thudding sound to his right, coming from Potter having dropped his precious bag of trash, and Draco wondered what the Golden Boy would have to say to him now.

But then Potter clenched his fist and rammed it across Draco’s jaw.

Draco staggered back, feeling his skull thumping under the impact. He wanted to disappear right there; he wished he’d just gone and found a dark corner by the northern doors to sulk in like he’d planned. _Damn you, Peeves_.

He didn’t know why it affected him so much, but coming from Potter— _his_ rival, _his_ light to his dark... A punch just didn’t sit right with him. Had Draco fallen so far off the list that he was just some punchable joke now? A mere goon? He wanted Potter to yell at him, get angry at him, _look_ at him—but instead, he threw one punch and looked right past him.

Draco tried to recover, make it look like it didn’t bother him (it did, and damn did it hurt), and so he walked away into the Great Hall.

He sat as far away from Potter and his ilk as he could, at the darkest corner of the Slytherin table, pushing away the empty plates left behind. His jaw was still thumping. It was probably red and bruised already, and now he would have to answer to both McGonagall _and_ the Ministry about it. _Fuck_ , he thought. Why did he do this to himself?

As he sat there feeling sorry for himself, and hating himself, Luna Lovegood walked up to him. She took one look at his face and asked, in her haunting monotone, if he’d like her to heal it for him.

“Why?” he asked. He didn’t understand it. Not at all.

Lovegood shrugged. “It’s the nice thing to do,” she answered.

 _The nice thing to do_. As if it were that simple after all.

Draco, in his restless insomnia, always came back to that moment, always wondering: _Why?_ Why him? She could have ignored him, like he wanted everyone to, and then Draco would have been left to his own burden of answering McGonagall’s questions. He probably would’ve never been allowed to return to Hogwarts after the revelation. ...But Lovegood healed his jaw as she said she would, and neither the Headmistress nor the Auror ever noticed a mark.

 _The nice thing to do_. These were the words that haunted him at night. Had Draco ever done one nice thing in his life? Ever? Had he ever done _anything_ at all that didn’t have some kind of ulterior motive to benefit himself?

After everything Lovegood had gone through, she was still capable of doing “nice things”, even for people who’d directly hurt her. Draco couldn’t even do one nice thing for people he actually cared about.

Even when he was faced with the toughest choice of his short life, standing on the Tower with a wand shaking violently in his pale hand, he’d made his choice for all the wrong reasons. When he heard Dumbledore’s offer, did he think of anything besides saving his own skin? Even his own parents? He just stood there, feeling himself about to vomit from stress, and then let his own godfather take the fall for him, inevitably leading to the man’s death.

So, that was at least two people Draco had killed second-handedly. There were probably others; he just couldn’t think of them. After all—what life touched by him _wasn’t_ left in ruin?

That one “nice thing” had so much power over him—without it, he wouldn’t even have the chance to register for a new wand and turn his life around. But why did Lovegood do it? Even now, even after he’d committed to trying harder, and even after all this time he’d spent with the holy one himself, Harry Potter, he _still_ couldn’t understand it. It drove him mad that he didn’t know the answer.

Was there some divine answer that Potter and Lovegood and all the Gryffindors knew that he just wasn’t aware of? Was there some trait inherited at birth that made them better than him that he didn’t even know about? Some kind of “niceness” gene that guides them onto the right path?

He could feel the absence of it like a black hole in his DNA. This was why he was born a Malfoy, raised like a prat, and led onto a path of utter despair. There was just something _wrong_ with him, but he couldn’t find the source, and thus, he realized he couldn’t fix it. Even with Potter’s help.

He would never have the life he’d started to dream of. But he couldn’t help but to dream—it would surely be his downfall. He never should have looked into the Mirror that day with Potter. Never should have started thinking about it, dreaming of waking up one day in a warm bed with fluffy white sheets, rolling over and sticking his hand into a mass of unruly black hair that he’d tried several times, failingly, to tame.

No, in reality, his best future looked like walking alone along the grey streets of London, turning through a turnstile at the Ministry and passing unnoticed by an old acquaintance, who at one time had been the center point of everything he’d loved and hated. But now, when their eyes met, all he could see was green indifference. At some point, he’d be entirely forgotten. Standing, alone, in the shadows of the first-floor landing.

Draco smashed his eyes shut, praying for the splitting ache in his heart muscle to go away for good, but it never did. He was left with constant visions of his splintering futures.

_“I was...” he began, “Overcome by this unstoppable impulse to leave the tower.”_

He wanted—needed—to see the reflection again. One last time before he accepted defeat.

_“How did you plan to get back into the dormitory?”_

_“I didn’t,” he answered. “I ended up wandering around the third-floor corridor. There was... something I wanted to look at in Professor Flitwick’s classroom.”_

_“The Mirror?” Potter asked._

_“Yes.”_

By sheer luck, the Mirror was standing there under a sheet just as he’d remembered it when Potter took him to it the first time.

It was dark, and Draco couldn’t cast a spell to help himself, but fortunately the moonlight was bright enough to see by. He withdrew the sheet over the Mirror’s frame and let it fall into a heap on the floor. The mirror surface was perfectly clear and black, and it held a strong sheen under the moonlight. Curious, Draco held out his hand and touched the glass with his fingertips. It felt almost like ice.

He stood back until he could see himself framed inside the mirror, and then he looked into his reflection’s gaze. His reflection’s eyes were round and bright, unlike his own, which had become drooped and dull and heavily underlined by worry.

Where his reflection looked tall and full of color, Draco was drawn and pale from all his anxious, sleepless nights. The longer he stared at the reflection, the more it seemed to taunt him. In his insomnia-induced vision, the reflection’s calm expression became a twisted, jeering laugh at his expense.

 _What did he have that I don’t?_ he wondered. What wrong turns did he get to avoid, where this Draco didn’t?

He looked at the reflected world’s Harry Potter and began to obsess over that expression, too. What bothered him the most was that even now, after all the progress between them, this was still an expression he’d never seen on Potter’s face. Not directed towards him.

The more he focused on it, he began to think that the difference was that when his—the real—Harry Potter looked at him, he could always still see the trace of pity in his eyes.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Draco breathed, trying not to cry. His heart felt like a black hole twisting up his insides and filling his veins with viscous darkness. Fumbling, he stuck his hand into his pocket and pulled out the Ramidreju fur to stuff his wretched face into. It made him feel mildly better.

As he stood there with his face buried in the scarf, the classroom’s door cracked open and creaked. A cold breeze whistled against the back of his exposed neck.

“ _Draaaco..._ ” a voice hissed.

Draco’s blood froze at the sound. Slowly, he lowered his hand and let the soft moss of the scarf fall from his face. He looked at the mirror glass, but he could only see into the spurious reflected world—not his own. It had become so silent in the room, and the air so still, that he could faintly hear the ticking of his wristwatch as he held his breath and began to turn his head.

Finally, he turned to look.

The doorway stood in shadow—it was so dark that he couldn’t discern a shape—but he could feel its presence. Could feel it staring into him, straight into his heart. It made the hairs on his neck stand up. He stared into the void, his eyes burning and beginning to tear, but he didn’t dare blink. He felt the cold air again on his cheek.

His Ministry wand sat uselessly against his belt. His real wand was back in the Quad Tower in Potter’s satchel—the one Potter had tried so many times to get him to keep in case of emergency. If Draco lived, he’d never hear the end of it.

He had absolutely nothing to defend himself with except a scarf, and even though he’d spoken so highly of it earlier, he wasn’t keen to put all his hopes into it now that he was left staring into the pitch-black void of whatever horror lay ahead.

“ _Draco_ ,” it hissed. Draco shivered.

Very softly, he heard something sliding, like the sound of thin cloth rubbing along the stones of the floor. The thing—this demon—this beast—was coming closer.

Then, the figure formed from out of the shadows, as it had when he’d seen it on the grounds, and in the forest, dragging him deeper in toward his doom. It was a tall, black-robed figure with no breaths to exhale—only silence, and whispers.

With one more step, the cascading blue moonlight from the tall windows fell upon it, and Draco could finally see the figure’s eyes. Then, he knew it was too late.

“The—” Draco gulped, “The last thing I saw, before waking up here... was a pair of red eyes.” He locked his gaze with Harry’s and said quietly, “They were like snake eyes.”

 _Yes, those eyes_ , Harry thought. They were the last eyes he thought he’d ever see before he died. Now he supposed he and Draco had one more thing in common.

“And then... the flash of green light,” Draco finished.

Madam Pomfrey stumbled down into a chair beside the hospital bed. Her eyes stretched at the seams. “What will we do?” she asked, mostly to herself.

“Do you know what this means?” Draco whined. His black-rimmed eyes were starting to water, and his voice barely came out with a squeak.

Harry held his gaze and put on his best reassuring expression. “I didn’t know what it meant for a long time,” he answered, “But I realized something in the last dream.

“Draco, would you say your greatest fear was that Voldemort would return again and hunt you down for revenge?”

Draco’s mouth stuttered open. “How could you— What do you _think_ I’m afraid of now that that’s just happened?”

“But it didn’t just happen.”

“Like bloody hell it didn’t!” Draco yelled and pushed himself up off the bed. Before the Slytherin could take a wild swing at him, Harry grabbed his shoulders tightly and looked him squarely in the eyes.

“He’s dead. He’s dead and he can’t come back again. We made sure of it.”

“Then how—?”

Just as Harry had opened his mouth to answer the question burning Draco up inside, almost as if on cue, Hermione came running quickly back into the hospital wing with Neville trailing her closely and out of breath.

“Have you found it yet?” Harry asked.

“No,” Hermione answered, breathless herself. “But I’ve sent Ron with Seamus and Dean, and they’re going to wake up Professor Blackstow and some of the old D.A. to help.”

“F... Found it—?” Draco stammered, still confused.

At the tone of his voice, Neville looked him up and down and then laid a hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right, Malfoy?”

Draco violently shook him away. “Get off of me, Longbottom!”

“At least tell me you have _some_ good news, Hermione,” Harry pleaded.

She sighed, but smiled, and from the bag hanging across her back, she brought out a library book. _Of course_.

It was a fairly thin book; it looked clean, with a lux brown cover and yellow pages, and it fit snugly against Hermione’s palm as she held it up for them to read the title: _The Book of Boggarts._

“The bo— Book of—” Draco choked. Harry imagined that he was going through a lot of stages at once, all of them named “denial”.

Hermione thumbed open the book to an already ear-marked page and read aloud: “During the early 19th century, one Boggart rose to infamy after committing a string of murders against the muggles of Bexley. The vicious assaults eventually spread to haunt the entirety of London’s magic and non-magic populations.

“Later known as the ‘Bludgeoning Boggart of Old London Town,’ it possessed the unique capability to remain in a single form—that of a ‘murderous thug’—for vast periods of time. This was due in part to its success in inciting fear of the thug itself among Bexley residents.

“It was not until one would-be victim, local wizard Frederick Lee, thought to use a simple _Riddikulus_ charm that the true nature of the killer was discovered, and upon completion of the spell, it is said the Boggart was changed into a hamster.”

“So...” Neville began awkwardly in the silence that followed, “We’re going to find this thing... and turn it into a hamster?”

“This is bollocks,” Draco spat. He paced around them in panicked half-circles. “You’re telling me a bloody _Boggart_ killed Graham? And then tried to kill _me?_ ”

He threw up his hands in defeat at the ridiculousness of it (pun unintended). He continued, ranting, “They put those things in front of third-years, and I’ve never heard of one of them getting their heads lobbed off, have you?”

“Well, no, but—” Hermione started uncomfortably before being cut off.

“I mean really,” Draco fumed, “A fucking Boggart. Is all of this just a joke to you—”

“ _No!_ ” Hermione shouted at last. She fixed Draco with one of her serious looks and said, “It isn’t a joke. So if you want to know what I’ve found, Malfoy, then _shut up_. Or you can continue to stick your head in the sand, but either way—be quiet!”

Draco’s mouth actually snapped shut. Harry had to bite down hard to stop his laugh from escaping.

“The point is,” she continued, “That the Boggart that you’ve been dealing with is not an ordinary one like you would have seen in Defense class. This one has been around for a while, and most likely it was biding its time, feeding off everyone’s energy until it had stored enough power. And now...

“I think now it’s testing its own abilities. The Bexley story I read... that one started by stalking muggles. By building up the fear of the thing itself, it was able to feed off them much faster, and much more efficiently. So, eventually, it learned that it could go further. It started attacking them.

“And that’s what I think this one has been doing. It’s learning. It’s been testing its limits. If... If I have my stories straight here, then the Boggart figured out how to kill Graham Pritchard with physical objects. But when it tried to— when it attacked _you_ , Malfoy, it was testing what it could do if it mimicked a spell.

“And... thankfully, it failed,” she finished with an anxious exhale of breath. Draco appeared surprised by her regard for his safety.

“But how can Boggarts mimic spells?” Neville asked, his brows stitched together. “Surely only someone with a wand could do that?”

“Well,” Hermione began, collecting herself, “The thing about Boggarts is that they can usually replicate the abilities of their form to an extent—like how Harry’s would turn into a Dementor, and he was able to practice the Patronus charm on it.

“But their imitation magic will always be weaker than the original. That’s why the Boggart-Dementor couldn’t touch Harry’s soul like a real Dementor would be able to.”

“So,” Harry mused, “If a person’s fear was Voldemort, for instance—” He saw Draco glare at him from the corner of his eye.

“Precisely,” Hermione responded. “An experienced Boggart like this could try to imitate a wizard’s ability to cast spells, but nearly all its attempts would be bound to fail. And to attempt one of the Unforgiveables... I doubt any Boggart could do that correctly.”

Draco visibly shuddered, catching all their attention. He looked between Harry and Hermione, his eyes wide, and asked between stumbling lips, “So it... It didn’t kill me?”

Hermione’s mouth stretched between pity and reassurance. She shook her head. “It knocked you unconscious. It was like a fugue state, but affecting your whole body. You... looked like you could have been.”

At that, Draco sat down and released a big breath, like he’d been holding it the whole time since he’d woken up. He rubbed his eyes until they were nearly raw. “I hate this,” he pathetically muttered.

Harry asked, aghast, “Draco, did you _want_ it to be Voldemort?”

If Hermione looked at him strangely over saying Draco’s given name out loud without a thought, Harry pretended not to notice (he _did_ notice, however). He focused his gaze on Draco, who merely huffed and replied, “Of course not. I just... didn’t think it would be something as simple as a bloody Boggart.”

Neville frowned. “I wouldn’t count it out as being simple yet. We still haven’t figured out where it is, or where it’s been hiding this whole time.”

“And—there is something else that still bothers me,” Hermione added. Each of them, even Draco, looked at her worried face and waited for her to continue.

“Harry,” she said, looking him in the eyes, “Your dreams... And the Mirror of Erised. They’ve become so entangled in all of this, but how?”

Now everyone was staring at him. It was _the_ question, wasn’t it? The question that had been haunting him since the very beginning, since his first dream about the Philosopher’s stone.

He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

One step forward... and who knew how many still left in the shadows beyond. That seemed to be the theme of his eighth-year at Hogwarts: not knowing.

Maybe one day he’d find the answers he’s been looking for, locked away in a far-off dream somewhere beyond the horizon. Tucked away, deep in the rushing waters underneath the calm.

He could only hope.


End file.
